Return  this  book  on  or  before  the 
Latest  Date  stamped  below. 


University  of  Illinois  Library 


MOMENTS  WITH  ART 


C^e^. 


Copyright, 

By  A.  C.  McClurg  & Co. 
A.D.  1899. 


^■/Vi  ./  >.  fr  /Wv  ,sf  * 


SO*.  I 

3)  -*»v 

I*?  04 


J.  W.  D. 


I 194650 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT. 


For  permission  to  use  poems  in  this  col- 
lection, the  compiler  wishes  to  thank  Mrs. 
E.  S.  P.  Ward,  Miss  Dickinson,  Miss  Marie 
van  Vorst,  Mr.  T.  B.  Aldrich,  Rev.  Dr.  Henry 
Van  Dyke,  Prof.  Richard  Burton,  Mr.  William 
Allen  Butler,  Mr.  A.  R.  Macdonough,  Mr.  C. 
M.  Sciple,  and  Rev.  Frank  W.  Gunsaulus. 

Poems  by  Mrs.  Elizabeth  S.  P.  Ward,  Emma 
Lazarus,  Mrs.  Deland,  Edgar  Fawcett,  James 
Russell  Lowell,  E.  R.  Sill,  E.  C.  Stedman, 
Henry  W.  Longfellow,  W.  W.  Story,  and 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  are  used  by  per- 
mission of  and  by  special  arrangement  ,with 
Messrs.  Houghton,  Mifflin  & Co. 

Thanks  are  also  due  the  following  authors 
and  their  publishers  : — Messrs.  Cassell  & Co., 
Magazine  of  Art : J.  M.  Templeton,  J.  F. 
Sullivan,  and  Sir  Joseph  Noel  Paton.  Cassell 
Publishing  Co. : Helen  Gray  Cone.  The 


atfenotoleKgment. 


viii 


Century  Co. : Mrs.  F.  E.  Coates,  Mrs.  A.  W. 
Brotherton,  Mrs.  Bessie  C.  Parker,  Richard 
Watson  Gilder,  Kenyon  Cox,  S.  Weir 
Mitchell,  and  R.  R.  Bowker.  Messrs.  Dodd, 
Mead  & Co. : Austin  Dobson  and  Hamilton 
W.  Mabie.  Messrs.  Harper  & Brothers: 
Mrs.  A.  A.  James,  Mrs.  Minna  C.  Smith, 
Mrs.  ’Harriet  L.  Bradley,  Marrion  Wilcox, 
and  Hon.  John  Hay.  The  Independent: 
Mrs.  L.  W.  Reese,  John  Lane,  William 
Watson.  Leslie’s  Weekly : Wm.  H.  Hayne. 
Messrs.  Little,  Brown  & Co. : Mrs.  Louise 
C.  Moulton,  Susan  Coolidge,  and  Sir  Edwin 
Arnold.  Messrs.  Macmillan  & Co. : Chris- 
tina Rossetti  and  Matthew  Arnold.  G.  P. 
Putnam’s  Sons  : Augusta  Lamed. 

J.  E.  P.  D. 

Brooklyn,  N.  Y., 

October,  1899. 


CONTENTS 


After  Albert  Cuyp  .... 

After  Ruysdael 

After  Teniers  ...... 

After  Watteau 

Andrea  del  Sarto 

“ Angelo,  thou  art  the  Master  ” 
Anthony  of  Padua  .... 
Antinous  of  the  Vatican  . . 

^ Any  Sculptor  to  Any  Model 


S.  Weir  Mitchell^ 


A ustin  Dobson  . 
Robert  Brozvning 
Richard  W.  Gilder 
Harriet  L.  Bradley 
Owen  Innsly  . . . 

J.  A ddington  Symonds 

Apollo,  and  Venus  of  Medici,  The  James  Thomson 

Ars  Servatrix Henry  Norman 

T.  B.  Aldrich  . 

William  Watson 

Florence  Earle  Coates 


PAGE 

J°5 

80 

46 

90 

126 

193 

32 

114 


Sonnet  on  Briton  Riviere’s 
Painting 


22 

183 

14 

169 

182 


198 

William  Watson  . 

47 

Ascending  Magdalen,  by  Ribera, 

Michael  A ngelo  . 

60 

The 

Minna  C.  Smith  . 

54 

Before  the  Picture  of  the  Baptist, 

Robert  Leighton  . 

153 

by  Raphael 

William  Wordsworth 

*5° 

Before  Titian’s  Portrait  of  Himself 

Minna  C.  Smith  . 

i37 

Christ  Blessing  Little  Children 
Christ,  The  (suggested  by  the 

Sir  Edwin  A mold 

177 

Pictures  of  Tissot)  . . . 

Martha  G.  Dickinson 

61 

Richard  Burton 

48 

Corot’s  Orpheus 

Cradle  Tomb  in  Westminster 

A ugusta  Lamed  . 

* 

42 

Abbey,  The 

Daniel’s  Answer  to  the  King. 

Susan  Coolidge  . . 

* 

92 

F.  W.  Gunsaulus  . . 173 


X 


Contents, 


Discouraging  Model,  A . . . . 

Dutch  Picture,  A 

Easter  in  Florence 

Engraving,  after  Murillo,  An  . . 

Epitaph  on  Sir  Godfrey  Kneller  . 
EurydicetoOrpheus(by  Leighton) 
Extemporaneous  Lines  on  a Por- 
trait of  Lady  Montagu,  by 

Kneller 

Face,  A 

Femme  Inconnue  of  the  Louvre 
“ Fini^  Coronat  Opus  ” . . . . 

Flight  into  Egypt,  The  .... 
For  “The  Wine  of  Circe,”  by 

Burne-Jones 

^ Four  Pictures  by  Burne-Jones  . 

Fra  Angelico 

Fra  Lippo  Lippi 

Gospel  of  Art,  The 

Hiram  Powers’  Greek  Slave  . . 

Holy  Family,  by  Michelangelo  . 
Hour  in  a Studio,  An  (F.  L.) . . 

Household  Art 

In  an  Artist’s  Studio  .... 

In  an  Atelier 

In  the  Court  of  the  Lions : by 
Moonlight  ....... 

Individuality 

Ivory  Miniature,  An 

Last  Supper,  The  (by  Leonardo) 
Lepage’s  Joan  of  Arc  .... 
Lines  to  a Stupid  Picture  . . . 

Lines  written  on  the  Roof  of 
Milan  Cathedral  .... 
Lion  of  Lucerne,  The  .... 

Madonna 

Madonna,  The 

Madonna  and  Child 

Madonna  of  Dagnan-Bouveret,  A 
Madonna  of  Fra  Lippo  Lippi,  A 
Magdalen  of  the  Dresden  Gal- 
lery, A . 


PAGE 


J.  Whitcomb  Riley  . 19 

Henry  W.  Longfellow  47 
Lord  Houghton  . . 149 
Marrion  Wilcox  . . 119 

Alexander  Pope  . . 188 

Robert  Browning  . . 62 

Alexander  Pope  . . 169 
Robert  Browning  . . 23 

Kenyon  Cox  . . . . 12 1 

R.  R . Bowker  . . . 199 

Henry  Van  Dyke  . . 125 

D.  G.  Rossetti  . . . 148 

y.  A ddington  Symonds  88 
Sir  yoseph  Noel  Pat  on  102 
Robert  Browning  . . 154 

Kenyon  Cox  ....  13 

E.  B.  Browning  . . 176 

D.  G.  Rossetti  . . . 103 

Richard  W.  Gilder  . 18 1 

Austin  Dobson  . . . 117 

Christina  Rossetti  . . 87 

T.  B.  Aldrich  ...  94 

Louise  C.  Moulton  . . 115 

Sidney  Lanier  ...  21 

Helen  Gray  Cone  . . 33 

William  Wordsworth  99 
Helen  Gray  Cone  . . 104 

Austin  Dobson  . . . 106 

y.  A ddington  Symonds  44 
Edgar  Fawcett  . . . 19 1 

Lizette  W.  Reese  . . 195 

Emily  H.  Miller  . . 46 

Alice  Archer  yames  . 112 

Robert  U.  yohnson  . 86 

Richard  W.  Gilder  . 141 

A.  R.  Macdo?iough  . 174 


Contents. 


XI 


PAGE 


Mater  Dolorosa 

William  H.  Hayne  . 

i5 

Meissonier • 

Edgar  Fawcett . . . 

43 

Michael  Angelo 

Henry  W.  Longfellow 

116 

122 

Michael  Angelo’s  Slave  . . • 

>>  ft  >» 

Richard  W.  Gilder  . 

176 

Michael  Angelo’s  Studio  . . . 

Henry  W.  Longfellow 

59 

Michelangelo’s  Moses  .... 

William  Watson  . . 

135 

Milan  (Da  Vinci’s  Christ)  . . . 

S.  Weir  Mitchell  . . 

151 

Millais’  Huguenots 

Anonymous  ...» 

184 

Millet  and  Zola 

Lord  Houghton  . . 

100 

Near  Amsterdam  (after  Cuyp)  . 

S.  Weir  Mitchell  y . . 

123 

,^New  Colossus,  The 

Emma  Lazancs  . - 

136 

Old  and  New  Art 

D.  G.  Rossetti  . . . 

187 

Old  Picture-Dealer,  The  . . . 

Edmund  C.  Stedman 

54 

Old  Pictures  in  Florence  . • . 

Robert  Browning  . . 

67 

On  a Head  of  Christ,  by  Quintin 
Matsys 

Bessie  C.  Parker  . . 

3i 

On  a Portrait  of  Dante,  by  Giotto 

James  Rtissell  Lowell 

113 

On  a Portrait  of  Wordsworth,  by 
B.  R.  Haydon 

E.  B.  Browning  . . 

52 

On  a Surf-Rolled  Torso  of  Venus 

E.  Lee  Hamilton  . . 

196 

On  Beethoven  composing  “The 
Moonlight  Sonata”  (by  Benj. 
Constant) 

141 

On  Diirer’s  Melencolia  .... 

William  Watson  . . 

102 

On  Raphael’s  Archangel  Michael 

E.  Lee  Hamilton  . . 

142 

Our  Lady  of  the  Rocks  (by  Da 
Vinci) 

D.  G.  Rossetti  . . . 

172 

Passtum 

John  Hay  .... 

36 

Parthenon  by  Moonlight,  The 

Richard  W.  Gilder  . 

108 

Pathos  of  Art,  The 

Sir  Lewis  Morris  . . 

179 

Perfection 

William  Watson  . . 

30 

Pictor  Ignotus 

Robert  Browning  . . 

49 

Picture  at  Newstead,  A . . . 

Matthew  A mold  . . 

37 

Pictures 

Sir  Lewis  Morris  . . 

189 

Poet  expresses  his  Feelings  re- 
specting a Portrait  in  Delia’s 
Parlor,  The 

Robert  Southey  . . . 

53 

Portia’s  Picture  ...... 

William  Shakespeare 

196 

Portrait  by  Burne-Jones,  A . . 

Marie  van  Vorst  . . 

192 

Portrait  d’une  Dame  Espagnole 
(Fortuny) 

124 

XU 


Contents, 


PAGE 


Portrait,  The 

D.  G.  Rossetti  . • • 

U5 

Recognition 

Martha  G.  Dickinson 

30 

Romney’s  Remorse 

Lord  Tennyson . . . 

143 

^<Rose  and  the  Statue,  The  . . . 

Owen  Innsly  .... 

91 

no 

Saint  Cecilia 

Richard  Burton  . . 

63 

Sistine  Madonna,  The  .... 

M.E.S 

17 

Spring,  by  Sandro  Botticelli  . . 
Students’  Day,  in  the  National 

D.  G.  Rossetti  . . . 

16 

Gallery 

Supper  at  Emmaus,  The  (by 

Sir  Edwin  A mold  . 

81 

Rembrandt) 

R.  IV.  Gilder  . . . 

197 

Thorwaldsen 

T.  B.  Aldrich  . . . 

36 

Titian’s  Assumption 

Titian’s  Studio  (Titian,  Michael 

William.  Allen  Butler 

57 

Angelo,  and  Vasari)  . . . 

H.  W.  Long  fellow 

38 

To  Art 

/ To  the  Child  of  the  Sistine  Ma- 

William Watson  . . 

21 

donna  

Margaret  Deland  . . 

18 

To  Vittoria  Colonna 

Michael  A ngelo  . . 

65 

Turner’s  Old  Tem^raire  . . . 

James  Russell  Lovjell 

170 

Under  Raphael’s  Magdalene  . . 

C.  Morton  Sciple  . . 

118 

Unpaid  Work 

Robert  Leighton  . . 

152 

Untrammelled  Art 

James  F.  Sullivan 

64 

Venus  of  Milo 

Richard  W.  Gilder  . 

US 

Venus  of  Milo,  The 

Edward  Rowland  Sill 

24 

Venus  of  the  Louvre  .... 
Very  Woful  Ballade  of  the  Art 

Emma  Lazarus  . . 

18 

Critic,  A.  (To  E.  A.  Abbey) 

A ndrew  Lang  . . . 

120 

Vittoria 

Elizabeth  S.  P.  Ward 

98 

Winged  Victory,  The  .... 

Marie  van  Vorst  . . 

X38 

| Woman  and  Artist 

Alice  W.  Brother  ton  . 

190 

MOMENTS  WITH  ART. 


i. 

The  world  of  art  is  an  ideal  world,  — . 

The  world  I love,  and  that  I fain  would  live  in ; 

So  speak  to  me  of  artists  and  of  art. 

Longfellow. 

II. 

God  sometimes  granteth  unto  a man  to  learn 
and  know  how  to  make  a thing,  the  like  whereof 
in  his  day  no  other  can  contrive;  and  perhaps 
for  a long  time  none  hath  been  before  him,  and 
after  him  another  cometh  not  soon. 

Albrecht  Durer. 

III. 

THE  GOSPEL  OF  ART. 

Work  thou  for  pleasure : paint  or  sing  or  carve 
The  thing  thou  lovest,  though  the  body  starve. 

Who  works  for  glory  misses  oft  the  goal ; 

Who  works  for  money  coins  his  very  soul. 

Work  for  the  work’s  sake,  then,  and  it  may  be 
That  these  things  shall  be  added  unto  thee. 

Kenyon  Cox. 


14 


foments  toit!)  3Crt. 


IV. 

ART. 

“ Let  art  be  all  in  all,”  one  time  I said, 

And  straightway  stirred  the  hypercritic  gall: 

I said  not,  “ Let  technique  be  all  in  all,” 

But  art  — a wider  meaning.  Worthless,  dead  — 
The  shell  without  its  pearl,  the  corpse  of  things  — 
Mere  words  are,  till  the  spirit  lend  them  wings. 
The  poet  who  breathes  no  soul  into  his  lute 
Falls  short  of  art : ’t  were  better  he  were  mute. 

The  workmanship  wherewith  the  gold  is  wrought 
Adds  yet  a richness  to  the  richest  gold  : 

Who  lacks  the  art  to  shape  his  thought,  I 
hold, 

Were  little  poorer  if  he  lacked  the  thought. 

The  statue’s  slumber  were  unbroken  still 
Within  the  marble,  had  the  hand  no  skill. 
Disparage  not  the  magic  touch  that  gives 
The  formless  thought  the  grace  whereby  it  lives ! 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich. 

V. 

Painting  is  welcome. 
Painting  is  almost  the  natural  man ; 

For  since  dishonor  traffics  with  man’s  nature, 
He  is  but  outside  ; these  pencilled  figures  are 
Even  such  as  they  give  out.  I like  your 
work ; 

And  you  shall  find  I like  it. 


Shakespeare. 


foments  tottf)  21rt* 


IS 


VI. 

The  one  thing  you  have  to  learn  — the  one 
power  truly  called  that  of  “painting”  — is  to 
lay  on  any  colored  substance,  whatever  its  con- 
sistence may  be  (from  mortar  to  ether),  at  once, 
of  the  exact  tint  you  want,  in  the  exact  form 
you  want,  and  in  the  exact  quantity  you  want. 
That  is  painting. 

Now,  you  are  well  aware  that  to  play  on  the 
violin  well  requires  some  practice.  Painting  is 
playing  on  a color-violin,  seventy-times-seven 
stringed,  and  inventing  your  tune  as  you  play 
it ! That  is  the  easy,  simple,  straightforward 
business  you  have  to  learn.  The  primary  ques- 
tion of  all  is  — can  you  play  ? Perfectly,  you 
never  can,  but  by  birth-gift.  The  entirely  first- 
rate  musicians  and  painters  are  born,  like  Mer- 
CUry ; — their  words  are  music,  and  their  touch 
is  gold : sound  and  color  wait  on  them  from 
their  youth  ; and  no  practice  will  ever  enable 
other  human  creatures  to  do  anything  like  them. 

John  Ruskin. 

VII. 

MATER  DOLOROSA. 

(Painting  in  the  Antwerp  Museum.) 

Mother  of  Sorrows ! On  your  Virgin  brow 
The  shade  of  Calvary  seems  falling  now ; 

And  from  your  heart  a mother’s  tears  uprise 
To  fill  the  fountains  of  your  deathless  eyes. 

William  H.  Hayne. 


1 6 


foments  toitl)  art. 


VIII. 

SPRING,  BY  SANDRO  BOTTICELLI. 

(In  the  Accademia  of  Florence.) 

What  masque  of  what  old  wind-withered  New 
Year 

Honors  this  Lady  ? 1 Flora,  wanton-eyed 
For  birth,  and  with  all  flowrets  prankt  and 
pied: 

Aurora,  Zephyrus,  with  mutual  cheer 
Of  clasp  and  kiss  : the  Graces  circling  near, 
’Neath  bower-linked  arch  of  white  arms  glori- 
fied : 

And  with  those  feathered  feet  which  hovering 
glide 

O’er  Spring’s  brief  bloom,  Hermes  the  har- 
binger. 


Birth-bare,  not  death-bare  yet,  the  young  stems 
stand, 

This  Lady’s  temple-columns  : o’er  her  head 
Love  wings  his  shaft.  What  mystery  here  is 
read 

Of  homage  and  of  hope  ? But  how  command 
Dead  Springs  to  answer  ? And  how  question 
here 

These  mummers  of  that  wind-withered  New 
Year  ? 

D.  G.  Rossetti. 


1 The  same  lady,  here  surrounded  by  the  masque  of  Spring, 
is  evidently  the  subject  of  a portrait  by  Botticelli,  formerly  in 
the  Pourtalks  collection  in  Paris.  This  portrait  is  inscribed, 
“ Smeralda  Bandinelli.” 


JHmnenta  toitf)  3trt. 


i7 


IX. 

THE  SISTINE  MADONNA. 

Mary,  Mary  ! pure  and  holy, 

Onward  floating,  onward  soaring, 

Heaven's  effulgence  round  thee  pouring. 

Mary,  Mary  ! sweet  and  lowly, 

Radiant  with  the  mystic  shining, 

Angels  languish  for  divining. 

Mary,  Mary  ! pure  and  holy, 

In  thine  arms  the  Lord  of  Glory, 

In  thine  heart  the  wondrous  story. 

Mary,  Mary  ! sweet  and  lowly, 

Cherubs  pausing  to  adore  thee, 

Lost  in  love  and  awe  before  thee  ! 

Mary,  Christus  ! pure  and  holy, 

Shadowed  eyes,  O Love  pathetic ! 

Starry  eyes,  O Light  prophetic  ! 

Mary,  Mary!  sweet  and  lowly, 

Throbs  the  hush  with  music’s  swaying, 
Human  pain  and  grief  allaying. 

M.  E.  S. 

x. 

What  we  most  need  is  not  so  much  to  real- 
ize the  ideal,  as  to  idealize  the  real. 

F.  H.  Hedge. 


i8 


JHomntfi  toitj)  &xt. 


XI. 

VENUS  OF  THE  LOUVRE. 

Down  the  long  hall  she  glistens  like  a star,* 

The  foam-born  mother  of  Love,  transfixed  to 
stone, 

Yet  none  the  less  immortal,  breathing  on. 

Time’s  brutal  hand  hath  maimed  but  could  not 
mar. 

When  first  the  enthralled  enchantress  from  afar 
Dazzled  mine  eyes,  I saw  not  her  alone, 

Serenely  poised  on  her  world-worshipped  throne, 
As  when  she  guided  once  her  dove-drawn  car,  — 
But  at  her  feet  a pale,  death-stricken  Jew, 

Her  life  adorer,  sobbed  farewell  to  love. 

Here  Heine  wept ! Here  still  he  weeps  anew, 
Nor  ever  shall  his  shadow  lift  or  move, 

While  mourns  one  ardent  heart,  one  poet-brain, 

For  vanished  Hellas  and  Hebraic  pain. 

Emma  Lazarus. 

XII. 

TO  THE  CHILD  OF  THE  SISTINE  MADONNA. 

Through  all  the  mists  of  years, 

One  smiling  baby  face 
Forever  young  appears, 

Aglow  with  childish  grace ! 

O questioning  sweet  eyes, 

O head  all  golden  brown, 

Above  thee  softly  lies 
The  shadow  of  a crown  ! 

Margaret  Deland. 


Jftoments  tottf)  &tt. 


19 


XIII. 

A DISCOURAGING  MODEL. 

Just  the  airiest,  fairiest  slip  of  a thing, 

With  a Gainsborough  hat,  like  a butterfly’s  wing, 
Tilted  up  at  one  side  with  the  jauntiest  air, 

And  a knot  of  red  roses  sown  in  under  there 
Where  the  shadows  are  lost  in  her  hair. 

Then  a cameo  face,  carven  in  on  a ground 
Of  that  shadowy  hair  where  the  roses  are 
wound ; 

And  the  gleam  of  a smile  O as  fair  and  as  faint 
And  as  sweet  as  the  masters  of  old  used  to  paint 
Round  the  lips  of  their  favorite  saint ! 

And  that  lace  at  her  throat,  and  the  fluttering 
hands 

Snowing  there,  with  a grace  that  no  art  under- 
stands, 

The  flakes  of  their  touches  — first  fluttering  at 
The  bow  — then  the  roses  — the  hair  — and 
then  that 

Little  tilt  of  the  Gainsborough  hat. 

O what  artist  on  earth  with  a model  like  this, 
Holding  not  on  his  palette  the  tint  of  a kiss, 

Nor  a pigment  to  hint  of  the  hue  of  her  hair, 
Nor  the  gold  of  her  smile  — O what  artist  could 
dare 

To  expect  a result  half  so  fair  ? 

James  Whitcomb  Riley. 
{Front  Green  Fields  and  Running  Brooks:  The 
Bow en-Mer rill  Co.) 


20 


foments  toitf)  &rt. 


XIV. 

il  I am  always  at  work,”  said  a great  artist, 

“ and  when  an  inspiration  comes,  I am  ready  to 
make  the  most  of  it.”  Inspiration  rarely  leaves 
such  a man  long  unvisited.  One  looks  at  Tur- 
ner’s pictures  with  wonder  in  his  heart.  In 
this  rushing,  roaring,  sooty  London,  with  its 
leaden  skies,  its  returning  clouds  and  obscuring 
fogs,  how  were  such  dreams  wooed  and  won? 
The  painter’s  life  answers  the  question.  Lon- 
don had  small  share  of  Turner ; he  lived  in  a 
world  of  his  own  making,  and  the  flush  of  its 
sky,  the  glory  of  its  golden  atmosphere,  never 
wholly  faded  from  his  vision.  ^ ^ 

XV. 

As  to  clever  people  hating  each  other,  I 
think  a little  extra  talent  does  sometimes  make 
people  jealous.  They  become  irritated  by  per- 
petual attempts  and  failures,  and  it  hurts  their 
tempers  and  dispositions.  Unpretending  medi- 
ocrity is  good,  and  genius  is  glorious ; but  a 
weak  flavor  of  genius  in  an  essentially  common 
person  is  detestable.  It  spoils  the  grand  neu- 
trality of  a commonplace  character,  as  the 
rinsings  of  an  unwashed  wine-glass  spoil  a 
draught  of  fair  water. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 

XVI. 

A picture  is  a poem  without  words. 

Horace. 


foments  toitt)  3trt. 


21 


XVII. 

INDIVIDUALITY. 

What  the  cloud  doeth 
The  Lord  knoweth, 

The  cloud  knoweth  not . 

What  the  artist  doeth , 

The  Lord  knoweth; 

Knoweth  the  artist  not  ? 

Well  answered  ! O dear  artists,  ye  — 
Whether  in  forms  of  curve  or  hue 
Or  tone  your  gospels  be  — 

Say  wrong  This  work  is  not  of  me, 

But  God : it  is  not  true,  it  is  not  true. 

Awful  is  Art  because  ’t  is  free. 

The  artist  trembles  o’er  his  plan, 

Where  men  his  Self  must  see. 

Who  made  a song  or  picture,  he 
Did  it,  and  not  another,  God  nor  man. 

Sidney  Lanier. 

{From  Poems  of  Sidney  Lanier,  copyright,  1884,  1891, 
by  Mary  D.  Lanier,  and  published  by  Charles  Scribner1  s 
Sons.) 

XVIII. 

TO  ART. 

To  Art  we  go  as  to  a well,  athirst, 

And  see  our  shadow  ’gainst  its  mimic  skies, 
But  in  its  depth  must  plunge  and  be  immersed 
To  clasp  the  naiad  Truth  where  low  she  lies. 

William  Watson. 


22 


foments  tottl)  &xt. 


XIX. 

THE  APOLLO,  AND  VENUS  OF  MEDICI. 

All  conquest-flushed,  from  prostrate  Python, 
came 

The  quivered  god.  In  graceful  act  he  stands, 
His  arm  extended  with  the  slackened  bow; 

Lio-ht  flows  his  easy  robe,  and  fair  displays 
A manly,  softened  form.  The  bloom  of  gods 
Seems  youthful  o’er  the  beardless  cheek  to 
wave : 

His  features  yet,  heroic  ardor  warms ; 

And  sweet  subsiding  to  a native  smile,. 

Mixed  with  the  joy  elating  conquest  gives, 

A scattered  frown  exalts  his  matchless  air. 

The  Queen  of  Love  arose,  as  from  the  deep 
She  sprung  in  all  the  melting  pomp  of  charms. 
Bashful  she  bends,  her  well-taught  look  aside 
Turns  in  enchanting  guise,  where  dubious  mix 
Vain  conscious  beauty,  a dissembled  sense 
Of  modest  shame,  and  slippery  looks  of  love. 
The  gazer  grows  enamoured,  and  the  stone, 

As  if  exulting  in  its  conquest,  smiles. 

So  turned  each  limb,  so  swelled  with  softening  art, 
That  the  deluded  eye  the  marble  doubts. 

James  Thomson. 

XX. 

Hunt’s  “ Light  of  the  World,”  is,  I believe, 
the  most  perfect  instance  of  expressional  pur- 
pose with  technical  power  which  the  world  has 
yet  produced.  John  Ruskin- 


foments  tott!)  3tt. 


23 


XXI. 

A FACE. 

If  one  could  have  that  little  head  of  hers 
Painted  upon  a background  of  pale  gold, 

Such  as  the  Tuscan’s  early  art  prefers  ! 

No  shade  encroaching  on  the  matchless  mould 
Of  those  two  lips,  which  should  be  opening  soft 
In  the  pure  profile  ; not  as  when  she  laughs, 
For  that  spoils  all : but  rather  as  if  aloft 

Yon  hyacinth,  she  loves  so,  leaned  its  staff  s 
Burthen  of  honey-colored  buds  to  kiss  . 

And  capture  ’twixt  the  lips  apart  for  this. 

Then  her  lithe  neck,  three  fingers  might  sur- 
round, 

How  it  should  waver  on  the  pale  gold  ground 
Up  to  the  fruit-shaped,  perfect  chin  it  lifts ! 

I know,  Correggio  loves  to  mass,  in  rifts 
Of  heaven,  his  angel  faces,  orb  on  orb 
Breaking  its  outline,  burning  shades  absorb  : 
But  these  are  only  massed  there,  I should  think, 
Waiting  to  see  some  wonder  momently 
Grow  out,  stand  full,  fade  slow  against  the  sky 
(That ’s  the  pale  ground  you ’d  see  this  sweet 
face  by), 

All  heaven,  meanwhile,  condensed  into  one 
eye 

Which  fears  to  lose  the  wonder,  should  it  wink. 

Robert  Browning. 

XXII. 

It  is  the  perfection  of  art  to  conceal  art. 


Ovid. 


24 


foments  toitj)  ^Crt. 


XXIII. 

THE  VENUS  OF  MILO. 

There  fell  a vision  to  Praxiteles : 

Watching  through  drowsy  lids  the  loitering  seas 
That  lay  caressing  with  white  arms  of  foam 
The  sleeping  marge  of  his  Ionian  home, 

He  saw  great  Aphrodite  standing  near, 

Knew  her,  at  last,  the  Beautiful  he  had  sought 
With  life-long  passion,  and  in  love  and  fear 
Into  unsullied  stone  the  vision  wrought. 

Far  other  was  the  form  that  Cnidos  gave 
To  senile  Rome,  no  longer  free  or  brave,  — 

The  Medicean,  naked  like  a slave. 

The  Cnidians  built  her  shrine 
Of  creamy  ivory  line ; 

Most  costly  was  the  floor 
Of  scented  cedar,  and  from  door 
Was  looped  to  carven  door 
Rich  stuff  of  Tyrian  purple,  in  whose  shade 
Her  glistening  shoulders  and  round  limbs  out- 
shone, 

Milk-white  as  lilies  in  a summer  moon. 

Here  honey-hearted  Greece  to  worship  came, 
And  on  her  altar  leaped  a turbid  flame, 

The  quickened  blood  ran  dancing  to  its  doom, 
And  lip  sought  trembling  lip  in  that  rich  gloom. 

But  the  island  people  of  Cos,  by  the  salt  main 
From  Persia’s  touch  kept  clean, 

Chose  for  their  purer  shrine  amid  the  seas 
That  grander  vision  of  Praxiteles. 


foments  tott?)  %LvU 


25 


Long  ages  after,  sunken  in  the  ground 
Of  sea-girt  Melos,  wondering  shepherds  found 
The  marred  and  dinted  copy  which  men  name 
Venus  of  Milo,  saved  to  endless  fame. 

Before  the  broken  marble,  on  a day, 

There  came  a worshiper  : a slanted  ray 
Struck  in  across  the  dimness  of  her  shrine 
And  touched  her  face  as  to  a smile  divine ; 

For  it  was  like  the  worship  of  a Greek 
At  her  old  altar.  Thus  I heard  him  speak  : — 

Men  call  thee  Love : is  there  no  holier  name 
Than  hers,  the  foam-born,  laughter-loving  dame  ? 
Nay,  for  there  is  than  love  no  holier  name  : 

All  words  that  pass  the  lips  of  mortal  men 
With  inner  and  with  outer  meaning  shine  ; 

An  outer  gleam  that  meets  the  common  ken, 

An  inner  light  that  but  the  few  divine. 

Thou  art  the  love  celestial,  seeking  still 
The  soul  beneath  the  form  ; the  serene  will ; 
The  wisdom,  of  whose  deeps  the  sages  dream ; 
The  unseen  beauty  that  doth  faintly  gleam 
In  stars,  and  flowers,  and  waters  where  they 
roll; 

The  unheard  music  whose  faint  echoes  even 
Make  whosoever  hears  a homesick  soul 
Thereafter,  till  he  follow  it  to  heaven. 

Larger  than  mortal  woman  I see  thee  stand, 
With  beautiful  head  bent  forward  steadily, 

As  if  those  earnest  eyes  could  see 


2 6 


foments  tottl)  &xt 


Some  glorious  thing  far  off,  to  which  thy  hand 
Invisibly  stretched  onward  seems  to  be. 

From  thy  white  forehead’s  breadth  of  calm,  the 
hair 

Sweeps  lightly,  as  a cloud  in  windless  air. 
Placid  thy  brows,  as  that  still  line  at  dawn 
Where  the  dim  hills  along  the  sky  are  drawn, 
When  the  last  stars  are  drowned  in  deeps  afar. 
Thy  quiet  mouth  — I know  not  if  it  smile, 

Or  if  in  some  wise  pity  thou  wilt  weep,  — 
Little  as  one  may  tell,  some  summer  morn, 
Whether  the  dreamy  brightness  is  most  glad, 
Or  wonderfully  sad,  — 

So  bright,  so  still  thy  lips  serenely  sleep ; 

So  fixedly  thine  earnest  eyes  the  while, 

As  clear  and  steady  as  the  morning  star, 

Their  gaze  upon  that  coming  glory  keep. 


Thy  garment’s  fallen  folds 
Leave  beautiful  the  fair,  round  breast 
In  sacred  loveliness  ; the  bosom  deep 
Where  happy  babe  might  sleep  ; 

The  ample  waist  no  narrowing  girdle  holds, 
Where  daughters  slim  might  come  to  cling  and 
rest, 

Like  tendriled  vines  against  the  plane-tree 
pressed. 

Around  thy  firm,  large  limbs  and  steady  feet 
The  robes  slope  downward,  as  the  folded  hills 
Slope  round  the  mountain’s  knees,  when  shadow 
fills 


Momenta  tott \ Slrt* 


27 


The  hollow  canons,  and  the  wind  is  sweet 
From  russet  oat-fields  and  the  ripening  wheat. 

From  our  low  world  no  gods  have  taken 
wing ; 

Even  now  upon  our  hills  the  twain  are  wander- 
ing; 

The  Medicean’s  sly  and  servile  grace, 

And  the  immortal  beauty  of  thy  face. 

One  is  the  spirit  of  all  short-lived  love 
And  outward,  earthly  loveliness  : 

The  tremulous  rosy  morn  is  her  mouth’s  smile, 
The  sky  her  laughing  azure  eyes  above ; 

And,  waiting  for  caress, 

Lie  bare  the  soft  hill-slopes,  the  while 
Her  thrilling  voice  is  heard 
In  song  of  wind  and  wave,  and  every  flitting 
bird. 

Not  plainly,  never  quite  herself  she  shows; 

Just  a swift  glance  of  her  illumined  smile 
Along  the  landscape  goes ; 

Just  a soft  hint  of  singing,  to  beguile 
A man  from  all  his  toil ; 

Some  vanished  gleam  of  beckoning  arm,  to 
spoil 

A morning’s  task  with  longing  wild  and  vain. 
Then  if  across  the  parching  plain 
He  seek  her,  she  with  passion  burns 
His  heart  to  fever,  and  he  hears 
The  west  wind’s  mocking  laughter  when  he 
turns, 

Shivering  in  mist  of  ocean’s  sullen  tears. 


28 


foments  tottf)  %LxU 


It  is  the  Medicean:  well  I know 
The  arts  her  ancient  subtlety  will  show  ; 

The  stubble-field  she  turns  to  ruddy  gold ; 

The  empty  distance  she  will  fold 

In  purple  gauze : the  warm  glow  she  has  kissed 

Along  the  chilling  mist : 

Cheating  and  cheated  love  that  grows  to  hate 
And  ever  deeper  loathing,  soon  or  late. 

Thou  too,  O fairer  spirit,  walkest  here 
Upon  the  lifted  hills  : 

Wherever  that  still  thought  within  the  breast 
The  inner  beauty  of  the  world  hath  moved; 

In  starlight  that  the  dome  of  evening  fills; 

On  endless  waters  rounding  to  the  west : 

For  them  who  thro*  that  beauty’s  veil  have  loved 
The  soul  of  all  things  beautiful  the  best. 

For  lying  broad  awake,  long  ere  the  dawn, 
Staring  against  the  dark,  the  blank  of  space 
Opens  immeasurably,  and  thy  face 
Wavers  and  glimmers  there  and  is  withdrawn. 
And  many  days,  when  all  one’s  work  is  vain, 
And  life  goes  stretching  on,  a waste  gray  plain, 
With  even  the  short  mirage  of  morning  gone, 
No  cool  breath  anywhere,  no  shadow  nigh 
Where  a weary  man  might  lay  him  down  and  die, 
Lo  ! thou  art  there  before  me  suddenly, 

With  shade  as  if  a summer  cloud  did  pass, 

And  spray  of  fountains  whispering  to  the  grass. 
Oh,  save  me  from  the  haste  and  noise  and  heat 
That  spoil  life’s  music  sweet : 

And  from  that  lesser  Aphrodite  there  — 


JJtaraentE!  tnitf)  Stct. 


29 


Even  now  she  stands 

Close  as  I turn,  and,  O my  soul,  how  fair  ! 

Nay,  I will  heed  not  thy  white  beckoning  hands, 
Nor  thy  soft  lips  like  the  curled  inner  leaf 
In  a rosebud’s  breast,  kissed  languid  by  the  sun, 
Nor  eyes  like  liquid  gleams  where  waters  run. 
Yea,  thou  art  beautiful  as  morn  ; 

And  even  as  I draw  nigh 

To  scoff,  I own  the  loveliness  I scorn. 

Farewell,  for  thou  hast  lost  me  : keep  thy  train 
Of  worshipers ; me  thou  dost  lure  in  vain  : 

The  inner  passion,  pure  as  very  fire, 

Burns  to  light  ash  the  earthlier  desire. 

O greater  Aphrodite,  unto  thee 
Let  me  not  say  farewell.  What  would  Earth  be 
Without  thy  presence  ? Surely  unto  me 
A life-long  weariness,  a dull,  bad  dream. 

Abide  with  me,  and  let  thy  calm  brows  beam 
Fresh  hope  upon  me  every  amber  dawn, 

New  peace  when  evening’s  violet  veil  is  drawn. 
Then,  tho’  I see  along  the  glooming  plain 
The  Medicean’s  waving  hand  again, 

And  white  feet  glimmering  in  the  harvest-field, 
I shall  not  turn,  nor  yield ; 

But  as  heaven  deepens,  and  the  Cross  and  Lyre 
Lift  up  their  stars  beneath  the  Northern  Crown, 
Unto  the  yearning  of  the  world’s  desire 
I shall  be  ’ware  of  answer  coming  down ; 

And  something,  when  my  heart  the  darkness 
stills, 

Shall  tell  me,  without  sound  or  any  sight, 


30 


J&oraentB  toitl)  9trt. 


That  other  footsteps  are  upon  the  hills  ; 

Till  the  dim  earth  is  luminous  with  the  light 
Of  the  white  dawn,  from  some  far-hidden  shore, 
That  shines  upon  thy  forehead  evermore. 

Edward  Rowland  Sill. 

XXIV. 

RECOGNITION. 

An  artist  feels  the  genius  where 
A critic  cries, 

“ Only  the  hinted  beauty  of  a fair 
Conception  marred  beyond  repair, 

That  truth  belies.” 

To  him  whose  heart  has  borne  the  strain 
Of  hope  and  fear, 

His  own  swift  visions  to  retain 
Beyond  a semblance  of  disdain, 

All  work  is  dear. 

Martha  Gilbert  Dickinson. 

XXV. 

PERFECTION. 

To  keep  in  sight  Perfection,  and  adore 
The  vision,  is  the  artist’s  best  delight; 

His  bitterest  pang,  that  he  can  ne’er  do  more 
Than  keep  her  long’d-for  loveliness  in  sight. 

William  Watson. 


foments  tottl)  &rt. 


3i 


XXVI. 

ON  A HEAD  OF  CHRIST,  BY  QUINTIN 
MATSYS. 

(Fifteenth  Century.) 

A grieving  face,  adown  whose  hollow  cheek 

The  bright  tears  fall  from  tender,  mournful 
eyes ; 

Eyes,  sad  with  never  finding  what  they  seek, 

Lips,  curved  by  many  weary,  wasting  sighs. 

The  tear-drops  glisten  — frail  they  seem  and 
slight, 

As  though  a breath  would  sweep  them  into 
air; 

And  yet  four  hundred  years  of  day  and  night 

Have  passed  since  first  the  painter  formed 
them  there. 

How  strange  that  they  should  last,  those  painted 
tears, 

While  kingdoms  perish,  nations  fall  and  rise ; 

Strange  that  through  all  the  stormy  rush  of 
years 

They  lie  unchanged  in  those  sad,  grieving 
eyes. 

Does  He  yet  mourn  ? The  world  from  Him 
enticed 

Wanders  afar,  and  will  not  walk  His  way. 

O patient  One  ! O weary,  watching  Christ, 

Are  the  tears  wet  upon  Thy  face  to-day  ? 

Bessie  Chandler  Parker. 


32 


jHoraents  toitl)  art 


XXVII. 


ANTHONY  OF  PADUA. 
(Murillo.) 

This  story  with  its  simple  rhyme. 
This  picture  by  a hand  sublime, 
Spring  from  a legend  in  the  time 
Of  Anthony  of  Padua. 


Some  doubt  had  cast  its  shadows  strong 
Upon  the  Saint,  who  well  and  long 
Fought  manfully  to  right  this  wrong - 
Fought  day  and  night  in  Padua. 


Till  in  his  arms,  so  it  is  told, 

The  Saint  did  his  dear  Lord  enfold. 
And  there  appeared  a light  like  gold 
From  out  the  skies  of  Padua. 


« O Christ  Child,  art  Thou  come  to  me  . 
With  wonder  sweet  I welcome  Them 
o Christ  Child,  can  this  wonder  be  . 
Cried  Anthony  of  Padua. 


“I  thank  Thee,  Blessed  One,  for  this. 
Forgive  what  I have  done  amiss . 

And  let  me  greet  Thee  with  a kiss. 
Thou  Dear  One,  come  to  Padua. 


« To  him  who  struggles  with  his  might 
Our  Lord  has  promised  to  bring  light 
And  glory,  as  of  lilies  white, 

The  angels  sang  in  Padua. 

Harriet  Lewis  Bradley 


jHomenta  tottf) 


33 


XXVIII . 

AN  IVORY  MINIATURE. 

When  State  Street  homes  were  stately  still; 
When  out  of  town  was  Murray  Hill; 

In  late-deceased  “ old  times  ” 

Of  vast,  embowering  bonnet-shapes, 

And  creamy-crinkled  Canton  crapes, 

And  florid  annual-rhymes, 

He  owned  a small  suburban  seat 
Where  now  you  see  a modern  street, 

A monochrome  of  brown ; 

The  sad  “brown-brown  ” of  Dante’s  dreams, 
A twilight  turned  to  stone,  that  seems 
To  weight  our  city  down. 


Through  leafy  chestnuts  whitely  showed 
The  pillared  front  of  his  abode : 

A garden  girt  it  ’round, 

Where  pungent  box  did  trim  enclose 
The  marigold  and  cabbage-rose, 

And  “ pi’ny  ” heavy-crowned. 


Yea,  whatso  sweets,  the  changing  year’s, 
He  most  affected.  Gone,  but  here ’s 
His  face  who  loved  them  so. 

Old  eyes  like  sherry,  warm  and  mild ; 

A cheek  clear-hued  as  cheek  of  child; 
Sleek  head,  a sphere  of  snow. 

3 


34 


Jflnmtutc  tottf)  Sri 


His  mouth  was  pious,  and  his  nose 
Patrician ; with  which  mould  there  goes 
A disaffected  view. 

In  those  sublime,  be-oratored, 

Spread-eagle  days,  his  soul  deplored 
So  much  red-white-and-blue  ! 

In  umber  ink,  with  S’s  long, 

He  left  behind  him  censure  strong 
In  stiffest  phrases  clothed ; 

But  Time  — a pleasant  jest  enough  ! — 

Has  turned  the  tory  leaves  to  buff, 

The  liberal  hue  he  loathed. 

Of  many  a gentle  deed  he  made 
Brief  simple  record.  Never  fade 
Those  everlasting-flowers 
That  spring  up  wild  by  good  men’s  walks ; 
Opinions  wither  on  their  stalks, 

And  sere  grow  Fashion’s  bowers. 

Erect,  be-frilled,  in  neckcloth  tall. 

His  semblance  sits,  removed  from  all 
Our  needs  and  noises  new ; 

Released  from  all  the  rent  we  pay 
As  tenants  of  the  large  To-day, 

Cool,  in  a background  blue. 

And  he,  beneath  a cherub  chipped, 

Plump,  squamous-pinioned,  pouting-lipped, 
Sleeps  calm  where  Trinity 
Points  finger  dark  to  clouds  that  fleet; 

A warning,  seen  from  surging  street, 

A welcome,  seen  from  sea. 


foments  toil!)  &rt. 


35 


There  fall,  ghosts  glorified  of  tears 

Shed  for  the  dead  in  buried  years, 

The  silver  notes  of  chimes  ; 

And  there,  with  not  unreverent  hand 

Though  light,  I lay  this  “ greene  garland,” 
This  woven  wreath  of  rhymes. 

Helen  Gray  Cone. 

XXIX. 

Of  all  God’s  gifts  to  the  sight  of  man,  color 
is  the  holiest,  the  most  divine,  the  most  solemn. 
We  speak  rashly  of  gay  color  and  sad  color, 
for  color  cannot  at  once  be  good  and  gay.  All 
good  color  is  in  some  degree  pensive;  the 
loveliest  is  melancholy,  and  the  purest  and  most 
thoughtful  minds  are  those  which  love  color 
the  most.  John  Ruskin. 

XXX. 

Architecture  is  the  art  which  so  disposes 
and  adorns  the  edifices  raised  by  man,  for 
whatsoever  uses,  that  the  sight  of  them  may 
contribute  to  his  mental  health,  power,  and 
pleasure.  John  Ruskin. 

XXXI. 

Genius  is  nothing  but  a great  capacity  for 
patience.  Buffon. 

xxxii. 

Nature  is  the  art  of  God. 

Sir  Thomas  Browne. 


36 


^omenta  tottt) 


XXXIII . 

PiESTUM. 

Two  thousand  years  these  temples  have  been 

old,  £ , 

Yet  were  they  not  more  lovely  the  first  day 
When  o’er  yon  hills  the  young  light  blushed 
and  lay 

Along  these  tapering  columns,  and  eve  s gold 
Over  the  Tyrrhene  sea  in  glory  rolled. 

By  power  of  truth,  by  beauty’s  royal  sway, 
While  men  and  creeds  and  kingdoms  pass 
away, 

Their  gift  to  charm  and  awe  they  calmly  hold. 
Beauty  and  truth ! by  that  high  grace  divine 
They  force  the  tribute  of  the  vassal  years. 
Clouds  gloom ; the  blue  wave  dimples ; the 
stars  shine, 

To  make  them  fairer ; even  Time,  that  tears 
And  shames  all  other  things,  here  can  but  bless 
And  beautify  this  crumbling  loveliness. 

John  Hay. 


XXXIV. 

THORWALDSEN. 

We  often  fail  by  searching  far  and  wide 
For  what  lies  close  at  hand.  To  serve  our  turn 
We  ask  fair  wind  and  favorable  tide. 

From  the  dead  Danish  sculptor  let  us  learn 
To  make  Occasion,  not  to  be  denied. 

Against  the  sheer,  precipitous  mountain-side 
Thorwaldsen  carved  his  Lion  at  Lucerne. 

T.  B.  Aldrich. 


foments  tout!)  &rt 


37 


XXXV. 

A PICTURE  AT  NEWSTEAD. 

What  made  my  heart,  at  Newstead,  fullest 
swell  ? 

’T  was  not  the  thought  of  Byron,  of  his  cry 
Stormily  sweet,  his  Titan  agony ; 

It  was  the  sight  of  that  Lord  Arundel 

Who  struck,  in  heat,  his  child  he  loved  so  well, 
And  his  child’s  reason  flicker’d,  and  did  die. 
Painted  (he  will’d  it)  in  the  gallery 
They  hang ; the  picture  doth  the  story  tell. 

Behold  the  stern,  mailed  father,  staff  in  hand  ! 
The  little  fair-hair’d  son,  with  vacant  gaze, 
Where  no  more  lights  of  sense  or  knowledge 
are  ! 

Methinks  the  woe  which  made  that  father  stand 
Baring  his  dumb  remorse  to  future  days, 

Was  woe  than  Byron’s  woe  more  tragic  far. 

Matthew  Arnold. 


XXXVI. 

An  artist  is  — and  recollect  this  definition 
(put  in  capitals  for  quick  reference),  — A per- 
son WHO  HAS  SUBMITTED  TO  A LAW  WHICH  IT 
WAS  PAINFUL  TO  OBEY,  THAT  HE  MAY  BESTOW 
A DELIGHT  WHICH  IT  IS  GRACIOUS  TO  BESTOW. 

Ruskin. 


38 


^omenta  tottl) 


XXXVII. 

TITIAN’S  STUDIO. 

(A  painting  of  Danae  with  a curtain  before  it.  Titian, 
Michael  Angelo,  and  Vasari.) 

Michael  Angelo. 

So  you  have  left  at  last  your  still  lagoons, 

Your  City  of  Silence  floating  in  the  sea, 

And  come  to  us  in  Rome. 

Titian. 

I come  to  learn, 

But  I have  come  too  late.  I should  have  seen 
Rome  in  my  youth,  when  all  my  mind  was  open 
To  new  impressions.  Our  Vasari  here 
Leads  me  about,  a blind  man,  groping  darkly 
Among  the  marvels  of  the  past.  I touch  them, 
But  do  not  see  them. 

Michael  Angelo. 

There  are  things  in  Rome, 
That  one  might  walk  barefooted  here  from 
Venice 

But  to  see  once,  and  then  to  die  content. 

Tell  me  of  art  in  Venice.  Three  great  names, 
Giorgione,  Titian,  and  the  Tintoretto, 

Illustrate  your  Venetian  school,  and  send 
A challenge  to  the  world.  The  first  is  dead, 
But  Tintoretto  lives. 

Titian. 

And  paints  with  fire, 

Sudden  and  splendid,  as  the  lightning  paints 
The  cloudy  vault  of  heaven. 


foments  toitf)  9trt. 


39 


Vasari. 

Does  he  still  keep 

Above  his  door  the  arrogant  inscription 
That  once  was  painted  there,  — “ The  color  of 
Titian, 

With  the  design  of  Michael  Angelo  ” ? 

Titian. 

Indeed,  I know  not.  *T  was  a foolish  boast, 
And  does  no  harm  to  any  but  himself. 

Perhaps  he  has  grown  wiser. 

Michael  Angelo. 

And  now,  Maestro,  pray  unveil  your  picture 
Of  Danae,  of  which  I hear  such  praise. 

Titian,  drawing  back  the  curtain • 
What  think  you  ? 

Michael  Angelo. 

That  Acrisius  did  well 
To  lock  such  beauty  in  a brazen  tower, 

And  hide  it  from  all  eyes. 

Titian. 

The  model  truly 

Was  beautiful. 

Michael  Angelo. 

And  more,  that  you  were  present, 
And  saw  the  showery  Jove  from  High  Olympus 
Descend  in  all  his  splendor. 

Titian. 

F rom  your  lips 

Such  words  are  full  of  sweetness. 


40 


Jiloments  tottl)  &rt. 


Michael  Angelo. 

You  have  caught 
These  golden  hues  from  your  Venetian  sunsets. 

Titian. 

Possibly. 

Michael  Angelo. 

Or  from  sunshine  through  a shower 
On  the  lagoons,  or  the  broad  Adriatic. 

And  thus  the  works  of  every  artist  show 
Something  of  his  surroundings  and  his  habits. 
The  uttermost  that  can  be  reached  by  color 
Is  here  accomplished.  Warmth  and  light  and 
softness 

Mingle  together.  Never  yet  was  flesh 
Painted  by  hand  of  artist,  dead  or  living, 

With  such  divine  perfection. 

Wonderful ! wonderful ! The  charm  of  color 
Fascinates  me  the  more  that  in  myself 
The  gift  is  wanting.  I am  not  a painter. 

Vasari. 

Messer  Michele,  all  the  arts  are  yours, 

Not  one  alone  ; and  therefore  I may  venture 
To  put  a question  to  you. 

Which  is  the  greater  of  the  sister  arts, 

Painting  or  sculpture  ? Solve  for  me  the  doubt. 

Michael  Angelo. 

Georgio  Vasari,  I have  often  said 
That  I account  that  painting  as  the  best 


JftomentsJ  toitf)  &xU 


41 


Which  most  resembles  sculpture.  Here  before 
us 

We  have  the  proof.  Behold  these  rounded 
limbs  ! 

How  from  the  canvas  they  detach  themselves, 
Till  they  deceive  the  eye,  and  one  would  say, 

It  is  a statue  with  a screen  behind  it ! 

And  now,  Maestro,  I will  say  once  more 
How  admirable  I esteem  your  work, 

And  leave  you,  without  further  interruption. 

Titian. 

Your  friendly  visit  hath  much  honored  me. 
Vasari. 

Farewell. 

Michael  Angelo,  to  Vasari,  going  out 

If  the  Venetian  painters  knew 
But  half  as  much  of  drawing  as  of  color, 

They  would  indeed  work  miracles  in  art, 

And  the  world  see  what  it  hath  never  seen. 

Henry  W.  Longfellow. 


XXXVIII. 

Even  in  portraits,  the  grace  — and,  we  may 
add,  the  likeness  — consists  more  in  taking  the 
general  air  than  in  observing  the  exact  simil- 
itude of  every  feature. 


Sir  Joshua  Reynolds. 


42 


foments  to  it!) 


XXXIX. 

COROT’S  ORPHEUS. 

Sweet  dove  of  dawn  with  silver  breast, 

Seen  dimly  through  the  fleeting  shade, 

Drugged  with  her  warm  and  dreamless  rest, 

The  earth  scarce  wakes  ere  thou  dost  fade. 

Color  unborn  in  herb  or  tree, 

Floats  dimly  on  the  silent  air, 

And  beauty,  fluent  still  and  free, 

A spirit  breathing  everywhere. 

Vast  depths  of  space  that  seem  to  thrill 
And  tremble  with  the  coming  day, 

That  mystic  moment  prayerful  still, 

Ere  gold  has  flooded  all  the  gray. 

High  mottled  clouds  upon  the  edge 
Have  caught  a little  quivering  beam, 

No  dewdrop  shining  on  the  hedge, 

No  light  upon  the  hidden  stream. 

But  all  the  landscape  drenched  with  dew, 

And  freshness  stealing  from  the  founts ; 

Bright  beams  that  pierce  the  tree-tops  through, 
While  in  the  east  a glory  mounts. 

Stealthy  the  breath  from  herb  and  flower 

Creeps  now  through  dripping  leaves  and  grass, 

To  pay  sweet  tribute  to  the  hour, 

And  freeze  the  breezes  as  they  pass. 


^aments  tottj)  girt* 


43 


The  god  comes  forth  to  greet  the  light, 
Dilating  with  the  breath  of  song, 

And  like  a swallow  in  its  flight 
By  inspiration  borne  along. 

He  grasps  the  lyre  with  careless  hand, 
Forgetful  of  its  charmed  strings ; 

One  moment  ere  their  tones  expand, 

The  voiceless  spirit  soars  and  sings. 

Sacred  as  truth  these  hues  and  lines, 

Religious  as  a minster  aisle ; 

When  reverence  thy  soul  inclines, 

Come  gaze  and  lose  thyself  the  while. 

Augusta  Larned. 

XL. 

MEISSONIER. 

Watching  your  precious  work,  we  vainly  guess 
What  miracle  creates  as  potent  fact 
Such  height  in  brevity,  width  in  narrowness, 
And  liberal  vigor  wed  with  cunning  tact. 

Your  virile  patience  that  no  toil  can  crush, 

The  more  we  muse  upon  we  prize  the  more, 

O Liliput  Angelo,  whose  wizard  brush 
Could  paint  a battle  upon  a louis  d'or! 

Edgar  Fawcett. 

XLI. 

Attempt  the  end,  and  never  stand  to  doubt ; 
Nothing ’s  so  hard  but  search  will  find  it  out. 

Herrick. 


44 


Jfloraents  toitl)  &rt. 


XL  II. 

LINES  WRITTEN  ON  THE  ROOF  OF  MILAN 
CATHEDRAL. 

“A  mount  of  marble,  a hundred  spires.” 

The  long,  long  night  of  utter  loneliness, 

Of  conflict,  pain,  defeat,  and  sore  distress, 

Hath  vanished ; and  I stand  as  one  whose  life 
Wages  with  death  a scarcely  winning  strife, 
Here,  on  this  mount  of  marble.  Like  a sea 
Waveless  and  blue,  the  sky’s  transparency 
Bathes  spire  and  statue.  Was  it  man  or  God 
Who  built  these  domes,  whereon  the  feet  have 
trod 

Of  eve  and  night  and  morn  with  rose  and  gold 
And  silver  and  strange  symbols  manifold 
Of  shadow  ? Fabric  not  of  stone  but  mist 
Or  pearl  or  cloud  beneath  heaven’s  amethyst 
Glitters  the  marvel : cloud  congealed  to  shine 
Through  centuries  with  lustre  crystalline; 

Pearl  spiked  and  fretted  like  an  Orient  shell ; 
Mist  on  the  frozen  fern-wreaths  of  a well. 

Not  God’s  but  man’s  work  this : God’s  yonder 
fane, 

Reared  on  the  distant  limit  of  the  plain, 

From  azure  into  azure,  to  blue  sky 
Shooting  from  vapors  blue  that  folded  lie 
Round  valley-basements,  robed  in  royal  snow, 
Wherefrom  life-giving  waters  leaping  flow, 
Aerial  Monte  Rosa  ! — God  and  man 
Confront  each  other,  with  this  narrow  span 


foments  toitlj  &ct. 


45 


Of  plain  to  part  them,  try  what  each  can  do 
To  make  applauding  Seraphs  from  the  blue 
Lean  marvel-smitten,  or  alight  with  song 
Upon  the  glittering  peaks,  or  clustering  throng 
The  spacious  pathways.  God  on  man’s  work 
here 

Hath  set  His  signature  and  symbol  clear ; 

Man’s  soul  that  thinks  and  feels,  to  God’s  work 
there 

Gives  life,  which  else  were  cold  and  dumb  and 
bare. 

God  is  man’s  soul;  man’s  soul  a spark  of  God : 
By  God  in  man  the  dull,  terrestrial  clod 
Becomes  a thing  of  beauty ; thinking  man 
Through  God  made  manifest,  outrival  can 
His  handiwork  of  nature.  Do  we  dream 
Mingling  reality  with  things  that  seem  ? 

Or  is  it  true  that  God  and  man  appear 
One  soul  in  sentient  art  self-conscious  here, 

One  soul  o’er  senseless  nature  stair  by  stair 
Raised  to  create  by  comprehending  there  ? 

J.  Addington  Symonds. 


XLIII. 

Artists  are  of  three  classes  : those  who  per- 
ceive and  pursue  the  good,  and  leave  the  evil ; 
those  who  perceive  and  pursue  the  good  and 
evil  together,  the  whole  thing  as  it  verily  is  ; 
and  those  who  perceive  and  pursue  the  evil  and 
leave  the  good. 


John  Ruskin. 


46 


foments  toitf)  §l?t* 


XL  IV. 

THE  MADONNA. 

Down  from  her  shrine  the  dear  Madonna  gazed, 
Her  baby  lying  warm  against  her  breast, 

“ What  does  she  see  ? ” he  whispered ; “ can  she 
guess 

The  cruel  thorns  to  those  soft  temples 
pressed?  ” 

“ Ah,  no  ! ” she  said,  “she  shuts  him  safe  from 
harms, 

Within  the  love-locked  harbor  of  her  arms. 

No  fear  of  coming  fate  could  make  me  sad 
If  so,  to-night,  I held  my  little  lad 

Emily  Huntington  Miller. 
XLV. 

AFTER  TENIERS. 

A quiet  curve  of  sombre  brown  water, 

Flecked  with  duck-weed  and  dotted  with 
leaves  ; 

A low  brick  cottage,  where  shadows  nestle 
’Neath  velvet  edges  of  well-thatched  eaves. 

In  front  a space,  with  its  gaudy  dahlias, 

And  solid  shade  of  the  branching  lime, 
Where,  soberly  gay,  two  boors  are  drinking 
In  the  deep’ning  gloom  of  the  evening  time. 

S.  Weir  Mitchell. 


JHoments  tottl)  &rt 


47 


XL  VI. 

' A DUTCH  PICTURE. 

But  when  the  winter  rains  begin, 

He  sits  and  smokes  by  the  blazing  brands, 
And  old  sea-faring  men  come  in, 

Goat-bearded,  gray,  and  with  double  chin, 

And  rings  upon  their  hands. 

They  sit  there  in  the  shadow  and  shine 
Of  the  flickering  fire  of  the  winter  night ; 
Figures  in  color  and  design 
Like  those  by  Rembrandt  of  the  Rhine, 

Half  darkness  and  half  light. 

Henry  W.  Longfellow. 

XL  VII. 

ART  MAXIMS. 

Often  ornateness 
Goes  with  greatness ; 

Oftener  felicity 
Comes  of  simplicity. 

Talent  that’s  cheapest 
Affects  singularity. 

Thoughts  that  dive  deepest 
Rise  radiant  in  clarity. 

No  record  Art  keeps 
Of  her  travail  and  throes. 

There  is  toil  on  the  steeps,  — 

On  the  summits,  repose. 

William  Watson. 


48  foments  tottl)  &tU 


XL  VI II. 

A COPY. 

I walked  a gallery  of  famous  names 
And  famous  fancies,  framed  in  lines  of  gold,— 
The  paintings  that  a world  has  reckoned  good,  — 
And  saw,  before  a canvas  that  did  limn 
Some  mythic  story  with  a wondrous  grace 
(For  Rubens  was  the  painter,  I recall), 

An  old,  bent  man  whose  long  and  silvered  locks 
Swept  down  his  shoulders,  and  whose  trembling 
hand 

Moved  steadier  as  it  grasped  the  brush,  where- 
with 

He  sketched  a copy  of  the  masterpiece ; 

His  easel  just  aside,  that  no  offence 
Of  barring  sight  from  those  who  came  to  gaze 
At  Rubens’  work  might  be  imputed  his. 
Straightway  the  wall,  with  all  its  freight  of  tales 
In  colors  told,  grew  blurred  before  mine  eyes, 
And  lost  its  old  allurement ; for  I could 
See  nothing  but  the  patient  plodder  there, 
Whom  death  might  overtake,  and  find  undone 
Full  half  the  figures  he  must  fitly  draw 
To  all-complete  the  picture,  let  alone 
The  laying  on  of  oils  to  give  it  life; 

And  who,  undaunted,  calm,  and  happy-eyed, 

Did  sit  and  sketch,  and  leave  the  rest  to  God. 
Without  the  hope  of  making  earthly  fame, . 

Yet  cheered,  perchance,  in  knowing  that  his  art 
Would  have  eternity  to  ripen  in, 

Until  he  blent  his  soul  with  Rubens’  own. 

Richard  Burton. 


^aments  toitl)  2lrt. 


49 


XLIX. 

PICTOR  IGNOTUS. 

(Florence,  15—.) 

I could  have  painted  pictures  like  that  youth  s 
Ye  praise  so.  How  my  soul  springs  up  ! No 
bar 

Stayed  me  — ah,  thought  which  saddens  while 
it  soothes ! 

— N ever  did  fate  forbid  me,  star  by  star, 

To  outburst  on  your  night,  with  all  my  gift 
Of  fires  from  God : nor  would  my  flesh  have 
shrunk 

From  seconding  my  soul,  with  eyes  uplift 

And  wide  to  heaven,  or  straight  like  thunder, 
sunk 

To  the  centre,  of  an  instant ; or  around 
Turned  calmly  or  inquisitive,  to  scan 
The  license  and  the  limit,  space  and  bound, 
Allowed  to  truth  made  visible  in  man. 

And,  like  that  youth  ye  praise  so,  all  I saw, 

Over  the  canvas  could  my  hand  have  flung, 
Each  face  obedient  to  its  passion’s  law, 

Each  passion  clear  proclaimed  without  a 
tongue : 

Whether  Hope  rose  at  once  in  all  the  blood, 
A-tiptoe  for  the  blessing  of  embrace, 

Or  Rapture  drooped  the  eyes,  as  when  her  brood 
Pull  down  the  nesting  dove’s  heart  to  its 
place ; 

Or  Confidence  lit  swift  the  forehead  up, 

And  locked  the  mouth  fast,  like  a castle 
braved,  — 


4 


50 


JStomente  toitl) 


O human  faces  ! hath  it  split,  my  cup  ? 

What  did  ye  give  me  that  I have  not  saved  ? 

Nor  will  I say  I have  not  dreamed  (how  well !) 
Of  going— - 1,  in  each  new  picture,  — forth, 

As,  making  new  hearts  beat  and  bosoms  swell, 
To  Pope,  or  Kaiser,  East,  West,  South,  or 
North, 

Bound  for  the  calmly  satisfied  great  State, 

Or  glad  aspiring  little  burgh,  it  went, 

Flowers  cast  upon  the  car  which  bore  the  freight, 
Through  old  streets  named  afresh  from  the 
event, 

Till  it  reached  home,  where  learned  age  should 
greet 

My  face,  and  youth,  the  star  not  yet  distinct 

Above  his  hair,  lie  learning  at  my  feet ! — 

Oh  ! thus  to  live,  I and  my  picture,  linked 

With  love  about,  and  praise,  till  life  should 
end, 

And  then  not  go  to  heaven,  but  linger  here. 

Here  on  my  earth,  earth’s  every  man  my  friend, 
The  thought  grew  frightful,  ’t  was  so  wildly 
dear ! 

But  a voice  changed  it.  Glimpses  of  such 
sights 

Have  scared  me,  like  the  revels  through  a 
door 

Of  some  strange  house  of  idols  at  its  rites  ! 
This  world  seemed  not  the  world  it  was, 
before : 

Mixed  with  my  loving  trusting  ones,  there 
trooped 


foments  tottb  2lrt* 


5i 


. . . Who  summoned  those  cold  faces  that 
begun 

To  press  on  me  and  judge  me  ? Though  I 
stooped 

Shrinking,  as  from  the  soldiery  a nun, 

They  drew  me  forth,  and  spite  of  me  . . . 
enough ! 

These  buy  and  sell  our  pictures,  take  and 
giye» 

Count  them  for  garniture  and  household-stuff, 
And  where  they  live  needs  must  our  pictures 
live 

And  see  their  faces,  listen  to  their  prate, 
Partakers  of  their  daily  pettiness, 

Discussed  of,  — “ This  I love,  or  this  I hate, 
This  likes  me  more,  and  this  affects  me  less ! ” 
Wherefore  I chose  my  portion.  If  at  whiles 
My  heart  sinks,  as  monotonous  I paint 
These  endless  cloisters  and  eternal  aisles 

With  the  same  series,  Virgin,  Babe,  and  Saint, 
With  the  same  cold  calm  beautiful  regard,  — 

At  least  no  merchant  traffics  in  my  heart ; 

The  sanctuary’s  gloom  at  least  shall  ward 

Vain  tongues  from  where  my  pictures  stand 
apart : 

Only  prayer  breaks  the  silence  of  the  shrine 
While,  blackening  in  the  daily  candle-smoke, 
They  moulder  on  the  damp  wall’s  travertine, 
’Mid  echoes  the  light  footstep  never  woke. 
So,  die  my  pictures  ! surely,  gently  die  ! 

O youth  ! men  praise  so,  — holds  their  praise 
its  worth  ? 


52 


jporaents  to  it!)  &rt. 


Blown  harshly,  keeps  the  trump  its  golden  cry  ? 
Tastes  sweet  the  water  with  such  specks  of 
earth  ? 

Robert  Browning. 


L. 

ON  A PORTRAIT  OF  WORDSWORTH,  BY  B.  R. 
HAYDON. 

Wordsworth  upon  Helvellyn ! Let  the  cloud 
Ebb  audibly  along  the  mountain-wind 
Then  break  against  the  rock,  and  show  behind 
The  lowland  valleys  floating  up  to  crowd 
The  sense  with  beauty.  He  with  forehead 
bowed 

And  humble-lidded  eyes,  as  one  inclined 
Before  the  sovran  thought  of  his  own  mind, 

And  very  meek  with  inspirations  proud, 

Takes  here  his  rightful  place  as  poet-priest 
By  the  high  altar,  singing  prayer  and  prayer 
To  the  higher  Heavens.  A noble  vision  free 
Our  Haydon’s  hand  has  flung  out  from  the  mist : 
No  portrait  this,  with  Academic  air ! 

This  is  the  poet  and  his  poetry. 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


LI. 

The  Greek  in  nature  saw  his  gods  half-hidden 
lurk ; 

And  copying  nature,  wrought  his  gods  into  his 
work. 


W.  W.  Story. 


foments  tottl; 


53 


LI I. 

THE  POET  EXPRESSES  HIS  FEELINGS  RE- 
SPECTING A PORTRAIT  IN  DELIA’S 
PARLOR. 

I would  I were  that  portly  gentleman, 

With  gold-laced  hat  and  golden-headed  cane, 
Who  hangs  in  Delia’s  parlor  ! for,  whene’er 
From  book  or  needlework  her  looks  arise, 

On  him  converge  the  sunbeams  of  her  eyes, 

And  he  unblamed  may  gaze  upon  My  Fair, 
And  oft  My  Fair  his  favored  form  surveys. 

Oh,  Happy  Picture,  still  on  Her  to  gaze  ! 

I envy  him  5 and  jealous  fear  alarms, 

Lest  the  strong  glance  of  those  divinest  charms 
Warm  him  to  life,  as  in  the  ancient  days, 
When  marble  melted  in  Pygmalion’s  arms. 

I would  I were  that  portly  gentleman, 

With  gold-laced  hat  and  golden-headed  cane ! 

Robert  Southey. 

LIU. 

I say  that  the  art  is  greatest  which  conveys 
to  the  mind  of  the  spectator,  by  any  means, 
whatsoever,  the  greatest  number  of  the  greatest 
ideas ; and  I call  an  idea  great  in  proportion  as 
it  is  received  by  a higher  faculty  of  the  mind, 
and  as  it  more  fully  occupies,  and  in  occupying, 
exercises  and  exalts,  the  faculty  by  which  it  is 
received.  If  this  then  be  the  definition  of  great 
art,  that  of  a great  artist  naturally  follows..  He 
is  the  greatest  artist  who  has  embodied,  in  the 
sum  of  his  works,  the  greatest  number  of  the 
greatest  ideas.  John  Ruskin. 


54 


JRoments  tottf)  Strt. 


LIV. 

THE  ASCENDING  MAGDALEN,  BY  RIBERA. 

Forgiven  woman,  spirit  unafraid 

Borne  upward  by  child  angels  to  the  throne, 
Nearing  the  presence  of  thy  Lord  alone, 
Humanly  outcast,  neither  wed  nor  maid, 

But  with  thy  soul’s  soul  pure,  although  the 
shade 

Of  anguish  past  is  in  thy  eyes,  the  moan 
Of  sorrow  stilled  upon  thy  lips,  its  tone 
Piercing  the  breast  as ’t  were  grief  unallayed. 

Yet  is  thy  ragged  garment  royal  dress, 

And  in  the  Lamb’s  blood  is  thy  mantle  dyed 
From  the  deep  heart  of  slain  and  risen  Love. 
Thy  hair  a halo  is  — each  holy  tress 

That  wiped  thy  Master’s  feet  a sign  above 
All  pardoning  words  thou  shalt  in  peace  abide  ! 

Minna  C.  Smith. 

LV. 

THE  OLD  PICTURE-DEALER. 

The  second  landing-place.  Above, 
Sun-pictures  for  a shilling  each. 

Below,  a haunt  that  Teutons  love,  — 

Beer,  smoke  and  pretzels  all  in  reach. 
Between  the  two,  a mouldy  nook 

Where  loungers  hunt  for  things  of  worth 
Engraving,  curio,  or  book  — 

Here  drifted  from  all  over  Earth. 


foments  tottf)  &rt* 


55 


Be  the  day’s  traffic  more  or  less, 

Old  Brian  seeks  his  Leyden  chair 
Placed  in  the  ante-room’s  recess, 

Our  connoisseur’s  securest  lair : 

Here,  turning  full  the  burner’s  rays, 

Holds  long  his  treasure-trove  in  sight, — 
Upon  a painting  sets  his  gaze 
Like  some  devoted  eremite. 

The  book-worms  rummage  as  they  will, 
Loud  roars  the  wonted  Broadway  din, 
Life  runs  its  hackneyed  round,  — but  still 
One  tireless  boon  can  Brian  win,  — 

Can  picture  in  this  modern  time 

A life  no  more  the  world  shall  know, 

And  dream  of  Beauty  at  her  prime 
In  Parma,  with  Correggio. 

Withered  the  dealer’s  face,  and  old, 

But  wearing  yet  the  first  surprise 
Of  him  whose  eyes  the  light  behold 
Of  Italy  and  Paradise : 

Forever  blest,  forever  young, 

The  rapt  Madonna  poises  there, 

Her  praise  by  hovering  cherubs  sung, 

Her  robes  by  ether  buoyed,  not  air. 

See  from  the  graybeard’s  meerschaum  float 
A cloud  of  incense  ! Day  or  night, 

He  needs  must  steal  apart  to  note 
Her  grace,  her  consecrating  light. 


56 


foments  tottl)  Strt. 


With  less  ecstatic  worship  lay, 

Before  his  marble  goddess  prone, 

The  crippled  poet,  that  last  day 

When  in  the  Louvre  he  made  his  moan. 

Warm  grows  the  radiant  masterpiece, 

The  sweetness  of  Correggio  ! 

The  visionary  hues  increase, 

Angelic  lustres  come  and  go  ; 

And  still,  as  still  in  Parma  too,  — 

In  Rome,  Bologna,  Florence,  all,  — 

Goes  on  the  outer  world’s  ado, 

Life’s  transitory,  harsh  recall. 

A real  Correggio?  And  here  ! 

Yes,  to  the  one  impassioned  heart, 
Transfiguring  all,  the  strokes  appear 
That  mark  the  perfect  master’s  art. 

You  question  of  the  proof  ? You  owe 
More  faith  to  fact  than  fancy?  Hush ! 

Look  with  expectant  eyes,  and  know, 

With  him,  the  hand  that  held  the  brush  ! 

The  same  wild  thought  that  warmed  from  stone 
The  Venus  of  the  monkish  Gest, 

The  image  of  Pygmalion, 

Here  finds  Correggio  confest. 

And  Art  requires  its  votary : 

The  Queen  of  Heaven  herself  may  pine 
When  these  quaint  rooms  no  longer  see 
The  one  that  knew  her  all  divine. 


foments  toitl)  art* 


57 


Ah  me!  ah  me,  for  centuries  veiled ! 

(The  desolate  Virgin  then  may  say,) 

Once  more  my  rainbow  tints  are  paled 
With  that  unquestioning  soul  away  — 
Whose  faith  compelled  the  sun,  the  stars, 

To  yield  their  halos  for  my  sake, 

And  saw  through  Time’s  obscuring  bars 
The  Parmese  master’s  glory  break ! 

E.  C.  Stedman. 

LVL 

TITIAN’S  ASSUMPTION. 

Burst  is  the  iron  gate ! 

And,  from  the  night  of  fate  ; 

Out  of  the  darkness  and  the  gloom  abhorred ; 
Amidst  the  choral  hymn, 

With  cloud  and  cherubim, 

The  Virgin  leaves  the  tomb,  — arisen  like  her 
Lord ! 

Free  in  the  heavens  she  soars, 

While  the  clear  radiance  pours, 

Like  a vast  glory,  round  her  upward  face ; 

And  higher  still  and  higher, 

With  the  angelic  choir, 

The  soul  by  grace  regained,  regains  the  realms 
of  grace. 

In  mortal  shape  ! and  yet, 

Upon  her  brow  is  set, 

The  new  celestial  glory  like  a crown ; 


20 


foments  tnttb  3trt. 


XIV. 

« I am  always  at  work,”  said  a great  artist, 

“ and  when  an  inspiration  comes,  I am  ready  to 
make  the  most  of  it.”  Inspiration  rarely  leaves 
such  a man  long  unvisited.  One  looks  at  Tur- 
ner’s pictures  with  wonder  in  his  heart.  In 

this  rushing,  roaring,  sooty  London,  with  i s 

leaden  skies,  its  returning  clouds  and  obscuring 
fogs,  how  were  such  dreams  wooed  and  won. 
The  painter’s  life  answers  the  question.  Lon- 
don had  small  share  of  Turner ; he  lived  in  a 
world  of  his  own  making,  and  the  flush  of  its 
sky,  the  glory  of  its  golden  atmosphere,  never 
wholly  faded  from  his  vision.  ^ ^ Mabie. 

XV. 

As  to  clever  people  hating  each  other,  I 
think  a little  extra  talent  does  sometimes  make 
people  jealous.  They  become  irritated  by  per- 
petual attempts  and  failures,  and  it  hurts  their 
tempers  and  dispositions.  Unpretending  medi- 
ocrity is  good,  and  genius  is  glorious;  but  a 
weak  flavor  of  genius  in  an  essentially  common 
person  is  detestable.  It  spoils  the  grand  neu- 
trality  of  a commonplace  character,  as  the 
rinsings  of  an  unwashed  wine-glass  spoil  a 
draught  of  fair  water. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


XVI. 


A picture  is  a poem  without  words. 


Horace. 


foments  tottf)  art, 


21 


XVII. 

INDIVIDUALITY. 

What  the  cloud  doeth 
The  Lord  knoweth, 

The  cloud  knoweth  not . 

What  the  artist  doeth , 

The  Lord  knoweth; 

Knoweth  the  artist  not  ? 

Well  answered  ! O dear  artists,  ye  — 
Whether  in  forms  of  curve  or  hue 
Or  tone  your  gospels  be  — 

Say  wrong  This  work  is  not  of  me, 

But  God : it  is  not  true,  it  is  not  true. 

Awful  is  Art  because ’t  is  free. 

The  artist  trembles  o’er  his  plan, 

Where  men  his  Self  must  see. 

Who  made  a song  or  picture,  he 
Did  it,  and  not  another,  God  nor  man. 

Sidney  Lanier. 

{From  Poems  of  Sidney  Lanier,  copyright,  1884,  1891, 
by  Mary  D.  Lanier,  and  published  by  Charles  Scribner1  s 
Sons.) 

XVIII. 

TO  ART. 

To  Art  we  go  as  to  a well,  athirst, 

And  see  our  shadow  ’gainst  its  mimic  skies, 
But  in  its  depth  must  plunge  and  be  immersed 
To  clasp  the  naiad  Truth  where  low  she  lies. 

William  Watson. 


22 


foments  toitl)  art. 


XIX. 

THE  APOLLO,  AND  VENUS  OF  MEDICI. 

All  conquest-flushed,  from  prostrate  Python, 

The  quivered  god.  In  graceful  act  he  stands, 

His  arm  extended  with  the  slackened  bow; 

Lio-ht  flows  his  easy  robe,  and  fair  displays 
A manly,  softened  form.  The  bloom  of  gods 
Seems  youthful  o’er  the  beardless  cheek  to 
wave : 

His  features  yet,  heroic  ardor  warms; 

And  sweet  subsiding  to  a native  smile,^ 

Mixed  with  the  joy  elating  conquest  gives, 

A scattered  frown  exalts  his  matchless  air. 

The  Queen  of  Love  arose,  as  from  the  deep 
She  sprung  in  all  the  melting  pomp  of  charms. 
Bashful  she  bends,  her  well-taught  look  aside 
Turns  in  enchanting  guise,  where  dubious  mix 
Vain  conscious  beauty,  a dissembled  sense 
Of  modest  shame,  and  slippery  looks  of  love. 
The  gazer  grows  enamoured,  and  the  stone, 

As  if  exulting  in  its  conquest,  smiles.  . 

So  turned  each  limb,  so  swelled  with  softening  art, 
That  the  deluded  eye  the  marble  doubts. 

James  Thomson. 

XX. 

Hunt’s  “ Light  of  the  World,”  is,  I believe, 
the  most  perfect  instance  of  expressional  pur- 
pose  with  technical  power  which  the  world  has 
yet  produced.  j0HN  ruskin. 


JHomtnta  tottlj  &rt. 


23 


XXI. 

A FACE. 

If  one  could  have  that  little  head  of  hers 
Painted  upon  a background  of  pale  gold, 

Such  as  the  Tuscan’s  early  art  prefers ! 

No  shade  encroaching  on  the  matchless  mould 
Of  those  two  lips,  which  should  be  opening  soft 
In  the  pure  profile  ; not  as  when  she  laughs, 
For  that  spoils  all:  but  rather  as  if  aloft 
Yon  hyacinth,  she  loves  so,  leaned  its  staff  s 
Burthen  of  honey-colored  buds  to  kiss 
And  capture  ’twixt  the  lips  apart  for  this. 

Then  her  lithe  neck,  three  fingers  might  sur- 
round, 

How  it  should  waver  on  the  pale  gold  ground 
Up  to  the  fruit-shaped,  perfect  chin  it  lifts ! 

I know,  Correggio  loves  to  mass,  in  rifts 
Of  heaven,  his  angel  faces,  orb  on  orb 
Breaking  its  outline,  burning  shades  absorb : 
But  these  are  only  massed  there,  I should  think, 
Waiting  to  see  some  wonder  momently 
Grow  out,  stand  full,  fade  slow  against  the  sky 
(That ’s  the  pale  ground  you ’d  see  this  sweet 
face  by), 

All  heaven,  meanwhile,  condensed  into  one 
eye 

Which  fears  to  lose  the  wonder,  should  it  wink. 

Robert  Browning. 


XXII. 

It  is  the  perfection  of  art  to  conceal  art. 


Ovid. 


24 


^omenta  tott&  $LxU 


XXIII. 

THE  VENUS  OF  MILO. 

There  fell  a vision  to  Praxiteles : 

Watching  through  drowsy  lids  the  loitering  seas 
That  lay  caressing  with  white  arms  of  foam 
The  sleeping  marge  of  his  Ionian  home, 

He  saw  great  Aphrodite  standing  near, 

Knew  her,  at  last,  the  Beautiful  he  had  sought 
With  life-long  passion,  and  in  love  and  fear 
Into  unsullied  stone  the  vision  wrought. 

Far  other  was  the  form  that  Cnidos  gave 
To  senile  Rome,  no  longer  free  or  brave,  — 

The  Medicean,  naked  like  a slave. 

The  Cnidians  built  her  shrine 
Of  creamy  ivory  fine ; 

Most  costly  was  the  floor 
Of  scented  cedar,  and  from  door 
Was  looped  to  carven  door 
Rich  stuff  of  Tyrian  purple,  in  whose  shade 
Her  glistening  shoulders  and  round  limbs  out- 
shone, 

Milk-white  as  lilies  in  a summer  moon. 

Here  honey-hearted  Greece  to  worship  came, 
And  on  her  altar  leaped  a turbid  flame, 

The  quickened  blood  ran  dancing  to  its  doom, 
And  lip  sought  trembling  lip  in  that  rich  gloom. 

But  the  island  people  of  Cos,  by  the  salt  main 
From  Persia’s  touch  kept  clean, 

Chose  for  their  purer  shrine  amid  the  seas 
That  grander  vision  of  Praxiteles. 


Momenta  tottf)  let. 


25 


Long  ages  after,  sunken  in  the  ground 
Of  sea-girt  Melos,  wondering  shepherds  found 
The  marred  and  dinted  copy  which  men  name 
Venus  of  Milo,  saved  to  endless  fame. 

Before  the  broken  marble,  on  a day, 

There  came  a worshiper  : a slanted  ray 
Struck  in  across  the  dimness  of  her  shrine 
And  touched  her  face  as  to  a smile  divine ; 

For  it  was  like  the  worship  of  a Greek 
At  her  old  altar.  Thus  I heard  him  speak  : — 

Men  call  thee  Love  : is  there  no  holier  name 
Than  hers,  the  foam-born,  laughter-loving  dame  ? 
Nay,  for  there  is  than  love  no  holier  name  : 

All  words  that  pass  the  lips  of  mortal  men 
With  inner  and  with  outer  meaning  shine  ; 

An  outer  gleam  that  meets  the  common  ken, 

An  inner  light  that  but  the  few  divine. 

Thou  art  the  love  celestial,  seeking  still 
The  soul  beneath  the  form  ; the  serene  will ; 
The  wisdom,  of  whose  deeps  the  sages  dream ; 
The  unseen  beauty  that  doth  faintly  gleam 
In  stars,  and  flowers,  and  waters  where  they 
roll ; 

The  unheard  music  whose  faint  echoes  even 
Make  whosoever  hears  a homesick  soul 
Thereafter,  till  he  follow  it  to  heaven. 

Larger  than  mortal  woman  I see  thee  stand, 
With  beautiful  head  bent  forward  steadily, 

As  if  those  earnest  eyes  could  see 


26 


foments  tottf)  &rt. 


Some  glorious  thing  far  off,  to  which  thy  hand 
Invisibly  stretched  onward  seems  to  be. 

From  thy  white  forehead’s  breadth  of  calm,  the 
hair 

Sweeps  lightly,  as  a cloud  in  windless  air. 
Placid  thy  brows,  as  that  still  line  at  dawn 
Where  the  dim  hills  along  the  sky  are  drawn, 
When  the  last  stars  are  drowned  in  deeps  afar. 
Thy  quiet  mouth  — I know  not  if  it  smile, 

Or  if  in  some  wise  pity  thou  wilt  weep,  — 
Little  as  one  may  tell,  some  summer  morn, 
Whether  the  dreamy  brightness  is  most  glad, 
Or  wonderfully  sad,  — 

So  bright,  so  still  thy  lips  serenely  sleep ; 

So  fixedly  thine  earnest  eyes  the  while, 

As  clear  and  steady  as  the  morning  star, 

Their  gaze  upon  that  coming  glory  keep. 


Thy  garment’s  fallen  folds 
Leave  beautiful  the  fair,  round  breast 
In  sacred  loveliness  ; the  bosom  deep 
Where  happy  babe  might  sleep  ; 

The  ample  waist  no  narrowing  girdle  holds, 
Where  daughters  slim  might  come  to  cling  and 

rest,  - , 

Like  tendriled  vines  against  the  plane-tree 

pressed. 

Around  thy  firm,  large  limbs  and  steady  feet 
The  robes  slope  downward,  as  the  folded  mils 
Slope  round  the  mountain’s  knees,  when  shadow 
fills 


foments  tott&  art. 


2 7 


The  hollow  canons,  and  the  wind  is  sweet 
From  russet  oat-fields  and  the  ripening  wheat. 

From  our  low  world  no  gods  have  taken 
wing ; 

Even  now  upon  our  hills  the  twain  are  wander- 
ing; 

The  Medicean’s  sly  and  servile  grace, 

And  the  immortal  beauty  of  thy  face. 

One  is  the  spirit  of  all  short-lived  love 
And  outward,  earthly  loveliness  : 

The  tremulous  rosy  morn  is  her  mouth’s  smile, 
The  sky  her  laughing  azure  eyes  above ; 

And,  waiting  for  caress, 

Lie  bare  the  soft  hill-slopes,  the  while 
Her  thrilling  voice  is  heard 
In  song  of  wind  and  wave,  and  every  flitting 
bird. 

Not  plainly,  never  quite  herself  she  shows; 

Just  a swift  glance  of  her  illumined  smile 
Along  the  landscape  goes ; 

Just  a soft  hint  of  singing,  to  beguile 
A man  from  all  his  toil ; 

Some  vanished  gleam  of  beckoning  arm,  to 
spoil 

A morning’s  task  with  longing  wild  and  vain. 
Then  if  across  the  parching  plain 
He  seek  her,  she  with  passion  burns 
His  heart  to  fever,  and  he  hears 
The  west  wind’s  mocking  laughter  when  he 
turns, 

Shivering  in  mist  of  ocean’s  sullen  tears. 


28 


foments  tott&  3trt* 


It  is  the  Medicean:  well  I know 
The  arts  her  ancient  subtlety  will  show  ; 

The  stubble-field  she  turns  to  ruddy  gold ; 

The  empty  distance  she  will  fold 

In  purple  gauze : the  warm  glow  she  has  kissed 

Along  the  chilling  mist : 

Cheating  and  cheated  love  that  grows  to  hate 
And  ever  deeper  loathing,  soon  or  late. 

Thou  too,  O fairer  spirit,  walkest  here 
Upon  the  lifted  hills  : 

Wherever  that  still  thought  within  the  breast 
The  inner  beauty  of  the  world  hath  moved; 

In  starlight  that  the  dome  of  evening  fills; 

On  endless  waters  rounding  to  the  west : 

For  them  who  thro*  that  beauty’s  veil  have  loved 
The  soul  of  all  things  beautiful  the  best. 

For  lying  broad  awake,  long  ere  the  dawn, 
Staring  against  the  dark,  the  blank  of  space 
Opens  immeasurably,  and  thy  face 
Wavers  and  glimmers  there  and  is  withdrawn. 
And  many  days,  when  all  one’s  work  is  vain, 
And  life  goes  stretching  on,  a waste  gray  plain, 
With  even  the  short  mirage  of  morning  gone, 
No  cool  breath  anywhere,  no  shadow  nigh 
Where  a weary  man  might  lay  him  down  and  die, 
Lo  ! thou  art  there  before  me  suddenly, 

With  shade  as  if  a summer  cloud  did  pass, 

And  spray  of  fountains  whispering  to  the  grass. 
Oh,  save  me  from  the  haste  and  noise  and  heat 
That  spoil  life’s  music  sweet : 

And  from  that  lesser  Aphrodite  there  — 


foments  tottf)  &rt. 


29 


Even  now  she  stands 

Close  as  I turn,  and,  O my  soul,  how  fair  ! 

Nay,  I will  heed  not  thy  white  beckoning  hands, 
Nor  thy  soft  lips  like  the  curled  inner  leaf 
In  a rosebud’s  breast,  kissed  languid  by  the  sun, 
Nor  eyes  like  liquid  gleams  where  waters  run. 
Yea,  thou  art  beautiful  as  morn ; 

And  even  as  I draw  nigh 

To  scoff,  I own  the  loveliness  I scorn. 

Farewell,  for  thou  hast  lost  me  : keep  thy  train 
Of  worshipers ; me  thou  dost  lure  in  vain  : 

The  inner  passion,  pure  as  very  fire, 

Burns  to  light  ash  the  earthlier  desire. 

O greater  Aphrodite,  unto  thee 
Let  me  not  say  farewell.  What  would  Earth  be 
Without  thy  presence  ? Surely  unto  me 
A life-long  weariness,  a dull,  bad  dream. 

Abide  with  me,  and  let  thy  calm  brows  beam 
Fresh  hope  upon  me  every  amber  dawn, 

New  peace  when  evening’s  violet  veil  is  drawn. 
Then,  tho’  I see  along  the  glooming  plain 
The  Medicean’s  waving  hand  again, 

And  white  feet  glimmering  in  the  harvest-field, 
I shall  not  turn,  nor  yield ; 

But  as  heaven  deepens,  and  the  Cross  and  Lyre 
Lift  up  their  stars  beneath  the  Northern  Crown, 
Unto  the  yearning  of  the  world’s  desire 
I shall  be  ’ware  of  answer  coming  down ; 

And  something,  when  my  heart  the  darkness 
stills, 

Shall  tell  me,  without  sound  or  any  sight, 


30 


jftomentB  tottl)  &rt. 


That  other  footsteps  are  upon  the  hills  ; 

Till  the  dim  earth  is  luminous  with  the  light 
Of  the  white  dawn,  from  some  far-hidden  shore, 
That  shines  upon  thy  forehead  evermore. 

Edward  Rowland  Sill, 

XXIV. 

RECOGNITION. 

An  artist  feels  the  genius  where 
A critic  cries, 

“ Only  the  hinted  beauty  of  a fair  . 
Conception  marred  beyond  repair, 

That  truth  belies.” 

To  him  whose  heart  has  borne  the  strain 
Of  hope  and  fear, 

His  own  swift  visions  to  retain 
Beyond  a semblance  of  disdain, 

All  work  is  dear. 

Martha  Gilbert  Dickinson. 

XXV. 

PERFECTION. 

To  keep  in  sight  Perfection,  and  adore 
The  vision,  is  the  artist’s  best  delight; 

His  bitterest  pang,  that  he  can  ne’er  do  more 
Than  keep  her  long’d-for  loveliness  in  sight. 

William  Watson. 


foments  toitj)  SLrt. 


3i 


XXVI. 

ON  A HEAD  OF  CHRIST,  BY  QUINTIN 
MATSYS. 

(Fifteenth  Century.) 

A grieving  face,  adown  whose  hollow  cheek 

The  bright  tears  fall  from  tender,  mournful 
eyes ; 

Eyes,  sad  with  never  finding  what  they  seek, 

Lips,  curved  by  many  weary,  wasting  sighs. 

The  tear-drops  glisten  — frail  they  seem  and 
slight, 

As  though  a breath  would  sweep  them  into 
air; 

And  yet  four  hundred  years  of  day  and  night 

Have  passed  since  first  the  painter  formed 
them  there. 

How  strange  that  they  should  last,  those  painted 
tears, 

While  kingdoms  perish,  nations  fall  and  rise ; 

Strange  that  through  all  the  stormy  rush  of 
years 

They  lie  unchanged  in  those  sad,  grieving 
eyes. 

Does  He  yet  mourn  ? The  world  from  Him 
enticed 

Wanders  afar,  and  will  not  walk  His  way. 

O patient  One  ! O weary,  watching  Christ, 

Are  the  tears  wet  upon  Thy  face  to-day  ? 

Bessie  Chandler  Parker. 


32 


foments  tottl)  art. 


XXVII. 

ANTHONY  OF  PADUA. 

(Murillo.) 

This  story  with  its  simple  rhyme, 

This  picture  by  a hand  sublime, 

Spring  from  a legend  in  the  time 
Of  Anthony  of  Padua. 

Some  doubt  had  cast  its  shadows  strong 
Upon  the  Saint,  who  well  and  long 
Fought  manfully  to  right  this  wrong 
Fought  day  and  night  in  Padua. 

Till  in  his  arms,  so  it  is  told, 

The  Saint  did  his  dear  Lord  enfold, 

And  there  appeared  a light  like  gold 
From  out  the  skies  of  Padua. 

“ O Christ  Child,  art  Thou  come  to  me  ! 

With  wonder  sweet  I welcome  Thee^ 

O Christ  Child,  can  this  wonder  be ! 

Cried  Anthony  of  Padua. 

“ I thank  Thee,  Blessed  One,  for  this. 
Forgive  what  I have  done  amiss ! 

And  let  me  greet  Thee  with  a kiss,  ^ 

Thou  Dear  One,  come  to  Padua. 

“ To  him  who  struggles  with  his  might 
Our  Lord  has  promised  to  bring  light 
And  glory,  as  of  lilies  white, 

The  angels  sang  in  Padua. 

Harriet  Lewis  Bradley. 


Jftoments  tottf)  3Lt fc 


33 


XXVIII . 

AN  IVORY  MINIATURE. 

When  State  Street  homes  were  stately  still; 
When  out  of  town  was  Murray  Hill; 

In  late-deceased  “ old  times  ” 

Of  vast,  embowering  bonnet-shapes, 

And  creamy-crinkled  Canton  crapes, 

And  florid  annual-rhymes, 

He  owned  a small  suburban  seat 
Where  now  you  see  a modern  street, 

A monochrome  of  brown ; 

The  sad  “ brown-brown  ” of  Dante’s  dreams, 
A twilight  turned  to  stone,  that  seems 
To  weight  our  city  down. 


Through  leafy  chestnuts  whitely  showed 
The  pillared  front  of  his  abode : 

A garden  girt  it  ’round, 

Where  pungent  box  did  trim  enclose 
The  marigold  and  cabbage-rose, 

And  “ pi’ny  ” heavy-crowned. 

Yea,  whatso  sweets,  the  changing  year’s, 
He  most  affected.  Gone,  but  here ’s 
His  face  who  loved  them  so. 

Old  eyes  like  sherry,  warm  and  mild ; 

A cheek  clear-hued  as  cheek  of  child; 
Sleek  head,  a sphere  of  snow. 

3 


34 


foments  tottfc  &rt. 


His  mouth  was  pious,  and  his  nose 
Patrician ; with  which  mould  there  goes 
A disaffected  view. 

In  those  sublime,  be-oratored, 

Spread-eagle  days,  his  soul  deplored 
So  much  red-white-and-blue ! 

In  umber  ink,  with  S’s  long, 

He  left  behind  him  censure  strong 
In  stiff est  phrases  clothed ; 

But  Time  — a pleasant  jest  enough  ! — 

Has  turned  the  tory  leaves  to  buff, 

The  liberal  hue  he  loathed. 

Of  many  a gentle  deed  he  made 
Brief  simple  record.  Never  fade 
Those  everlasting-flowers 
That  spring  up  wild  by  good  men’s  walks ; 
Opinions  wither  on  their  stalks, 

And  sere  grow  Fashion’s  bowers. 

Erect,  be-frilled,  in  neckcloth  tall. 

His  semblance  sits,  removed  from  all 
Our  needs  and  noises  new ; 

Released  from  all  the  rent  we  pay 
As  tenants  of  the  large  To-day, 

Cool,  in  a background  blue. 

And  he,  beneath  a cherub  chipped, 

Plump,  squamous-pinioned,  p outing-lipped, 
Sleeps  calm  where  Trinity 
Points  finger  dark  to  clouds  that  fleets 
A warning,  seen  from  surging  street, 

A welcome,  seen  from  sea. 


foments  tottf)  9trt. 


35 


There  fall,  ghosts  glorified  of  tears 

Shed  for  the  dead  in  buried  years, 

The  silver  notes  of  chimes  ; 

And  there,  with  not  unreverent  hand 

Though  light,  I lay  this  “ greene  garland,” 
This  woven  wreath  of  rhymes. 

Helen  Gray  Cone. 

xxix. 

Of  all  God’s  gifts  to  the  sight  of  man,  color 
is  the  holiest,  the  most  divine,  the  most  solemn. 
We  speak  rashly  of  gay  color  and  sad  color, 
for  color  cannot  at  once  be  good  and  gay.  All 
good  color  is  in  some  degree  pensive;  the 
loveliest  is  melancholy,  and  the  purest  and  most 
thoughtful  minds  are  those  which  love  color 
the  most.  John  Ruskin. 

xxx. 

Architecture  is  the  art  which  so  disposes 
and  adorns  the  edifices  raised  by  man,  for 
whatsoever  uses,  that  the  sight  of  them  may 
contribute  to  his  mental  health,  power,  and 
pleasure.  John  Ruskin. 

XXXI. 

Genius  is  nothing  but  a great  capacity  for 
patience.  Buffon. 

xxxii. 

Nature  is  the  art  of  God. 

Sir  Thomas  Browne. 


36 


foments  tottj)  art. 


XXXIII. 

PiESTUM. 

Two  thousand  years  these  temples  have  been 
old, 

Yet  were  they  not  more  lovely  the  first  day 
When  o’er  yon  hills  the  young  light  blushed 

and  lay  , , u 

Along  these  tapering  columns,  and  eve  s gold 
Over  the  Tyrrhene  sea  in  glory  rolled. 

By  power  of  truth,  by  beauty’s  royal  sway, 
While  men  and  creeds  and  kingdoms  pass 

away,  . , 

Their  gift  to  charm  and  awe  they  calmly  hold. 
Beauty  and  truth  ! by  that  high  grace  divine 
They  force  the  tribute  of  the  vassal  years. 
Clouds  gloom;  the  blue  wave  dimples;  the 
stars  shine, 

To  make  them  fairer ; even  Time,  that  tears 
And  shames  all  other  things,  here  can  but  bless 
And  beautify  this  crumbling  loveliness. 

John  Hay. 


XXXIV. 

THORWALDSEN. 

We  often  fail  by  searching  far  and  wide 
For  what  lies  close  at  hand.  To  serve  our  turn 
We  ask  fair  wind  and  favorable  tide. 

From  the  dead  Danish  sculptor  let  us  learn 
To  make  Occasion,  not  to  be  denied. 

Against  the  sheer,  precipitous  mountain-side 
Thorwaldsen  carved  his  Lion  at  Lucerne. 

T.  B.  Aldrich. 


Jitomenta  taritl)  &rt 


37 


XXXV. 

A PICTURE  AT  NEWSTEAD. 

What  made  my  heart,  at  Newstead,  fullest 
swell  ? 

’T  was  not  the  thought  of  Byron,  of  his  cry 
Stormily  sweet,  his  Titan  agony  ; 

It  was  the  sight  of  that  Lord  Arundel 

Who  struck,  in  heat,  his  child  he  loved  so  well, 
And  his  child’s  reason  flicker’d,  and  did  die. 
Painted  (he  will’d  it)  in  the  gallery 
They  hang ; the  picture  doth  the  story  tell. 

Behold  the  stern,  mailed  father,  staff  in  hand  ! 
The  little  fair-h air’d  son,  with  vacant  gaze, 
Where  no  more  lights  of  sense  or  knowledge 
are  ! 

Methinks  the  woe  which  made  that  father  stand 
Baring  his  dumb  remorse  to  future  days, 

Was  woe  than  Byron’s  woe  more  tragic  far. 

Matthew  Arnold. 

xxxvi. 

An  artist  is  — and  recollect  this  definition 
(put  in  capitals  for  quick  reference),  — A per- 
son WHO  HAS  SUBMITTED  TO  A LAW  WHICH  IT 
WAS  PAINFUL  TO  OBEY,  THAT  HE  MAY  BESTOW 
A DELIGHT  WHICH  IT  IS  GRACIOUS  TO  BESTOW. 

Ruskin. 


38 


foments  tottf)  %LxU 


XXXVII. 

TITIAN’S  STUDIO. 

(A  painting  of  Danae  with  a curtain  before  it.  Titian, 
Michael  Angelo,  and  Vasari.) 

Michael  Angelo. 

So  you  have  left  at  last  your  still  lagoons, 

Your  City  of  Silence  floating  in  the  sea, 

And  come  to  us  in  Rome. 

Titian. 

I come  to  learn, 

But  I have  come  too  late.  I should  have  seen 
Rome  in  my  youth,  when  all  my  mind  was  open 
To  new  impressions.  Our  Vasari  here 
Leads  me  about,  a blind  man,  groping  darkly 
Among  the  marvels  of  the  past.  I touch  them, 
But  do  not  see  them. 

Michael  Angelo. 

There  are  things  in  Rome, 
That  one  might  walk  barefooted  here  from 
Venice 

But  to  see  once,  and  then  to  die  content. 

Tell  me  of  art  in  Venice.  Three  great  names, 
Giorgione,  Titian,  and  the  Tintoretto, 

Illustrate  your  Venetian  school,  and  send 
A challenge  to  the  world.  The  first  is  dead, 
But  Tintoretto  lives. 

Titian. 

And  paints  with  fire, 

Sudden  and  splendid,  as  the  lightning  paints 
The  cloudy  vault  of  heaven. 


foments  toitf)  art. 


39 


Vasari. 

Does  he  still  keep 

Above  his  door  the  arrogant  inscription 
That  once  was  painted  there,  — “ The  color  of 
Titian, 

With  the  design  of  Michael  Angelo 51  ? 

Titian. 

Indeed,  I know  not.  ’T  was  a foolish  boast, 
And  does  no  harm  to  any  but  himself. 

Perhaps  he  has  grown  wiser. 

Michael  Angelo. 

And  now,  Maestro,  pray  unveil  your  picture 
Of  Danae,  of  which  I hear  such  praise. 

Titian,  drawing  back  the  curtain . 
What  think  you  ? 

Michael  Angelo. 

That  Acrisius  did  well 
To  lock  such  beauty  in  a brazen  tower, 

And  hide  it  from  all  eyes. 

Titian. 

The  model  truly 

Was  beautiful. 

Michael  Angelo. 

And  more,  that  you  were  present, 
And  saw  the  showery  Jove  from  High  Olympus 
Descend  in  all  his  splendor. 

Titian. 

From  your  lips 

Such  words  are  full  of  sweetness. 


40 


foments  tottl)  &tt. 


Michael  Angelo. 

You  have  caught 
These  golden  hues  from  your  Venetian  sunsets. 

Titian. 

Possibly. 

Michael  Angelo. 

Or  from  sunshine  through  a shower 
On  the  lagoons,  or  the  broad  Adriatic. 

And  thus  the  works  of  every  artist  show 
Something  of  his  surroundings  and  his  habits. 
The  uttermost  that  can  be  reached  by  color 
Is  here  accomplished.  Warmth  and  light  and 
softness 

Mingle  together.  Never  yet  was  flesh 
Painted  by  hand  of  artist,  dead  or  living, 

With  such  divine  perfection. 

Wonderful ! wonderful ! The  charm  of  color 
Fascinates  me  the  more  that  in  myself 
The  gift  is  wanting.  I am  not  a painter. 

Vasari. 

Messer  Michele,  all  the  arts  are  yours, 

Not  one  alone  ; and  therefore  I may  venture 
To  put  a question  to  you. 

Which  is  the  greater  of  the  sister  arts, 

Painting  or  sculpture  ? Solve  for  me  the  doubt. 

Michael  Angelo. 

Georgio  Vasari,  I have  often  said 
That  I account  that  painting  as  the  best 


Jftoments  tottf)  $rt. 


4i 


Which  most  resembles  sculpture.  Here  before 

US 

We  have  the  proof.  Behold  these  rounded 
limbs  ! 

How  from  the  canvas  they  detach  themselves, 
Till  they  deceive  the  eye,  and  one  would  say, 

It  is  a statue  with  a screen  behind  it ! 

And  now,  Maestro,  I will  say  once  more 
How  admirable  I esteem  your  work, 

And  leave  you,  without  further  interruption. 

Titian. 

Your  friendly  visit  hath  much  honored  me. 
Vasari. 

F arewell. 

Michael  Angelo,  to  Vasari,  going  out . 

If  the  Venetian  painters  knew 
But  half  as  much  of  drawing  as  of  color, 

They  would  indeed  work  miracles  in  art, 

And  the  world  see  what  it  hath  never  seen. 

Henry  W.  Longfellow. 


xxxviii. 

Even  in  portraits,  the  grace  — and,  we  may 
add,  the  likeness  — consists  more  in  taking  the 
general  air  than  in  observing  the  exact  simil- 
itude of  every  feature. 


Sir  Joshua  Reynolds. 


42 


Jfloments  tottj)  3lrt. 


XXXIX. 

COROT’S  ORPHEUS. 

Sweet  dove  of  dawn  with  silver  breast, 

Seen  dimly  through  the  fleeting  shade, 

Drugged  with  her  warm  and  dreamless  rest, 

The  earth  scarce  wakes  ere  thou  dost  fade. 

Color  unborn  in  herb  or  tree, 

Floats  dimly  on  the  silent  air, 

And  beauty,  fluent  still  and  free, 

A spirit  breathing  everywhere. 

Vast  depths  of  space  that  seem  to  thrill 
And  tremble  with  the  coming  day, 

That  mystic  moment  prayerful  still, 

Ere  gold  has  flooded  all  the  gray. 

High  mottled  clouds  upon  the  edge 
Have  caught  a little  quivering  beam, 

No  dewdrop  shining  on  the  hedge, 

No  light  upon  the  hidden  stream. 

But  all  the  landscape  drenched  with  dew, 

And  freshness  stealing  from  the  founts ; 

Bright  beams  that  pierce  the  tree-tops  through, 
While  in  the  east  a glory  mounts. 

Stealthy  the  breath  from  herb  and  flower 

Creeps  now  through  dripping  leaves  and  grass, 

To  pay  sweet  tribute  to  the  hour, 

And  freeze  the  breezes  as  they  pass. 


foments  tottl)  &xt 


43 


The  god  comes  forth  to  greet  the  light, 
Dilating  with  the  breath  of  song, 

And  like  a swallow  in  its  flight 
By  inspiration  borne  along. 

He  grasps  the  lyre  with  careless  hand, 
Forgetful  of  its  charmed  strings ; 

One  moment  ere  their  tones  expand, 

The  voiceless  spirit  soars  and  sings. 

Sacred  as  truth  these  hues  and  lines, 

Religious  as  a minster  aisle ; 

When  reverence  thy  soul  inclines, 

Come  gaze  and  lose  thyself  the  while. 

Augusta  Larned. 

XL. 

MEISSONIER. 

Watching  your  precious  work,  we  vainly  guess 
What  miracle  creates  as  potent  fact 
Such  height  in  brevity,  width  in  narrowness, 
And  liberal  vigor  wed  with  cunning  tact. 

Your  virile  patience  that  no  toil  can  crush, 

The  more  we  muse  upon  we  prize  the  more, 

O Liliput  Angelo,  whose  wizard  brush 
Could  paint  a battle  upon  a louis  d’or! 

Edgar  Fawcett. 

XLI. 

Attempt  the  end,  and  never  stand  to  doubt ; 
Nothing ’s  so  hard  but  search  will  find  it  out. 

Herrick. 


44 


foments  tort!)  3trt. 


XLII. 

LINES  WRITTEN  ON  THE  ROOF  OF  MILAN 
CATHEDRAL. 

“ A mount  of  marble,  a hundred  spires.” 

The  long,  long  night  of  utter  loneliness, 

Of  conflict,  pain,  defeat,  and  sore  distress, 

Hath  vanished ; and  I stand  as  one  whose  life 
Wages  with  death  a scarcely  winning  strife, 
Here,  on  this  mount  of  marble.  Like  a sea 
Waveless  and  blue,  the  sky’s  transparency 
Bathes  spire  and  statue.  Was  it  man  or  God 
Who  built  these  domes,  whereon  the  feet  have 
trod 

Of  eve  and  night  and  morn  with  rose  and  gold 
And  silver  and  strange  symbols  manifold 
Of  shadow  ? Fabric  not  of  stone  but  mist 
Or  pearl  or  cloud  beneath  heaven  s amethyst 
Glitters  the  marvel : cloud  congealed  to  shine 
Through  centuries  with  lustre  crystalline; 

Pearl  spiked  and  fretted  like  an  Orient  shell ; 
Mist  on  the  frozen  fern-wreaths  of  a well. 

Not  God’s  but  man’s  work  this : God’s  yonder 
fane, 

Reared  on  the  distant  limit  of  the  plain, 

From  azure  into  azure,  to  blue  sky 
Shooting  from  vapors  blue  that  folded  lie 
Round  valley-basements,  robed  in  royal  snow, 
Wherefrom  life-giving  waters  leaping  flow, 
Aerial  Monte  Rosa  ! — God  and  man 
Confront  each  other,  with  this  narrow  span 


foments  toitfc  &rt. 


45 


Of  plain  to  part  them,  try  what  each  can  do 
To  make  applauding  Seraphs  from  the  blue 
Lean  marvel-smitten,  or  alight  with  song 
Upon  the  glittering  peaks,  or  clustering  throng 
The  spacious  pathways.  God  on  man’s  work 
here 

Hath  set  His  signature  and  symbol  clear ; 

Man’s  soul  that  thinks  and  feels,  to  God’s  work 
there 

Gives  life,  which  else  were  cold  and  dumb  and 
bare. 

God  is  man’s  soul ; man’s  soul  a spark  of  God : 
By  God  in  man  the  dull,  terrestrial  clod 
Becomes  a thing  of  beauty;  thinking  man 
Through  God  made  manifest,  outrival  can 
His  handiwork  of  nature.  Do  we  dream 
Mingling  reality  with  things  that  seem  ? 

Or  is  it  true  that  God  and  man  appear 
One  soul  in  sentient  art  self-conscious  here, 

One  soul  o’er  senseless  nature  stair  by  stair 
Raised  to  create  by  comprehending  there  ? 

J.  Addington  Symonds. 

XLIII. 

Artists  are  of  three  classes  : those  who  per- 
ceive and  pursue  the  good,  and  leave  the  evil ; 
those  who  perceive  and  pursue  the  good  and 
evil  together,  the  whole  thing  as  it  verily  is  ; 
and  those  who  perceive  and  pursue  the  evil  and 
leave  the  good. 


John  Ruskin. 


4 6 


foments  tott&  &rt 


XL  IV. 

THE  MADONNA. 

Down  from  her  shrine  the  dear  Madonna  gazed, 
Her  baby  lying  warm  against  her  breast, 

“ What  does  she  see  ? ” he  whispered ; “ can  she 
guess 

The  cruel  thorns  to  those  soft  temples 
pressed?  ” 

“ Ah,  no !”  she  said,  “she  shuts  him  safe  from 
harms, 

Within  the  love-locked  harbor  of  her  arms. 

No  fear  of  coming  fate  could  make  me  sad 

If  so,  to-night,  I held  my  little  lad.” 

Emily  Huntington  Miller. 


XLV. 

AFTER  TENIERS. 

A quiet  curve  of  sombre  brown  water, 

Flecked  with  duck-weed  and  dotted  with 
leaves ; 

A low  brick  cottage,  where  shadows  nestle 
’Neath  velvet  edges  of  well-thatched  eaves. 

In  front  a space,  with  its  gaudy  dahlias, 

And  solid  shade  of  the  branching  lime, 
Where,  soberly  gay,  two  boors  are  drinking 
In  the  deep’ning  gloom  of  the  evening  time. 

S.  Weir  Mitchell. 


fHoments  tottl)  9trt. 


47 


XL  VI. 

' A DUTCH  PICTURE. 

But  when  the  winter  rains  begin, 

He  sits  and  smokes  by  the  blazing  brands, 
And  old  sea-faring  men  come  in, 

Goat-bearded,  gray,  and  with  double  chin, 

And  rings  upon  their  hands. 

They  sit  there  in  the  shadow  and  shine 
Of  the  flickering  fire  of  the  winter  night ; 
Figures  in  color  and  design 
Like  those  by  Rembrandt  of  the  Rhine, 

Half  darkness  and  half  light. 

Henry  W.  Longfellow. 

XL  VI I. 

ART  MAXIMS. 

Often  ornateness 
Goes  with  greatness ; 

Oftener  felicity 
Comes  of  simplicity. 

Talent  that’s  cheapest 
Affects  singularity. 

Thoughts  that  dive  deepest 
Rise  radiant  in  clarity. 

No  record  Art  keeps 
Of  her  travail  and  throes. 

There  is  toil  on  the  steeps,  — 

On  the  summits,  repose. 

William  Watson. 


48 


^-laments  tottf)  3trt, 


XL  VIII. 

A COPY. 

I walked  a gallery  of  famous  names 
And  famous  fancies,  framed  in  lines  of  gold,— 
The  paintings  that  a world  has  reckoned  good,  — 
And  saw,  before  a canvas  that  did  limn 
Some  mythic  story  with  a wondrous  grace 
(For  Rubens  was  the  painter,  I recall), 

An  old,  bent  man  whose  long  and  silvered  locks 
Swept  down  his  shoulders,  and  whose  trembling 
hand 

Moved  steadier  as  it  grasped  the  brush,  where- 
with 

He  sketched  a copy  of  the  masterpiece ; 

His  easel  just  aside,  that  no  offence 
Of  barring  sight  from  those  who  came  to  gaze 
At  Rubens’  work  might  be  imputed  his. 
Straightway  the  wall,  with  all  its  freight  of  tales 
In  colors  told,  grew  blurred  before  mine  eyes, 
And  lost  its  old  allurement ; for  I could 
See  nothing  but  the  patient  plodder  there, 
Whom  death  might  overtake,  and  find  undone 
Full  half  the  figures  he  must  fitly  draw 
To  all-complete  the  picture,  let  alone 
The  laying  on  of  oils  to  give  it  life ; 

And  who,  undaunted,  calm,  and  happy-eyed, 

Did  sit  and  sketch,  and  leave  the  rest  to  God. 
Without  the  hope  of  making  earthly  fame, . 

Yet  cheered,  perchance,  in  knowing  that  his  art 
Would  have  eternity  to  ripen  in, 

Until  he  blent  his  soul  with  Rubens’  own. 

Richard  Burton. 


foments  toitl)  &rt. 


49 


XL  IX. 

PICTOR  IGNOTUS. 

(Florence,  15—.) 

I could  have  painted  pictures  like  that  youth  s 
Ye  praise  so.  How  my  soul  springs  up  ! No 
bar 

Stayed  me  — ah,  thought  which  saddens  while 
it  soothes ! 

— Never  did  fate  forbid  me,  star  by  star, 

To  outburst  on  your  night,  with  all  my  gift 
Of  fires  from  God : nor  would  my  flesh  have 
shrunk 

From  seconding  my  soul,  with  eyes  uplift 

And  wide  to  heaven,  or  straight  like  thunder, 
sunk 

To  the  centre,  of  an  instant ; or  around 
Turned  calmly  or  inquisitive,  to  scan 
The  license  and  the  limit,  space  and  bound, 
Allowed  to  truth  made  visible  in  man. 

And,  like  that  youth  ye  praise  so,  all  I saw, 

Over  the  canvas  could  my  hand  have  flung, 
Each  face  obedient  to  its  passion’s  law, 

Each  passion  clear  proclaimed  without  a 
tongue : 

Whether  Hope  rose  at  once  in  all  the  blood, 
A-tiptoe  for  the  blessing  of  embrace, 

Or  Rapture  drooped  the  eyes,  as  when  her  brood 
Pull  down  the  nesting  dove’s  heart  to  its 
place ; 

Or  Confidence  lit  swift  the  forehead  up, 

And  locked  the  mouth  fast,  like  a castle 
braved,  — 


4 


50  jlcmtente  tottl) 


0 human  faces  ! hath  it  split,  my  cup  ? 

What  did  ye  give  me  that  I have  not  saved  ? 

Nor  will  I say  I have  not  dreamed  (how  well !) 
Of  going — I,  in  each  new  picture,  — forth, 

As,  making  new  hearts  beat  and  bosoms  swell, 
To  Pope,  or  Kaiser,  East,  West,  South,  or 
North, 

Bound  for  the  calmly  satisfied  great  State, 

Or  glad  aspiring  little  burgh,  it  went, 

Flowers  cast  upon  the  car  which  bore  the  freight, 
Through  old  streets  named  afresh  from  the 
event, 

Till  it  reached  home,  where  learned  age  should 
greet 

My  face,  and  youth,  the  star  not  yet  distinct 

Above  his  hair,  lie  learning  at  my  feet ! — 

Oh  ! thus  to  live,  I and  my  picture,  linked 

With  love  about,  and  praise,  till  life  should 
end, 

And  then  not  go  to  heaven,  but  linger  here. 

Here  on  my  earth,  earth’s  every  man  my  friend, 
The  thought  grew  frightful,  ’twas  so  wildly 
•dear ! 

But  a voice  changed  it.  Glimpses  of  such 
sights 

Have  scared  me,  like  the  revels  through  a 
door 

Of  some  strange  house  of  idols  at  its  rites  ! 
This  world  seemed  not  the  world  it  was, 
before : 

Mixed  with  my  loving  trusting  ones,  there 
trooped 


foments  tottf)  %LxU 


5i 


. . . Who  summoned  those  cold  faces  that 
begun 

To  press  on  me  and  judge  me  ? Though  I 
stooped 

Shrinking,  as  from  the  soldiery  a nun, 

They  drew  me  forth,  and  spite  of  me  . . . 
enough ! 

These  buy  and  sell  our  pictures,  take  and 
give, 

Count  them  for  garniture  and  household-stuff, 
And  where  they  live  needs  must  our  pictures 
live 

And  see  their  faces,  listen  to  their  prate, 
Partakers  of  their  daily  pettiness, 

Discussed  of,  — “ This  I love,  or  this  I hate, 
This  likes  me  more,  and  this  affects  me  less ! ” 
Wherefore  I chose  my  portion.  If  at  whiles 
My  heart  sinks,  as  monotonous  I paint 
These  endless  cloisters  and  eternal  aisles 

With  the  same  series,  Virgin,  Babe,  and  Saint, 
With  the  same  cold  calm  beautiful  regard,  — 

At  least  no  merchant  traffics  in  my  heart ; 

The  sanctuary’s  gloom  at  least  shall  ward 

Vain  tongues  from  where  my  pictures  stand 
apart : 

Only  prayer  breaks  the  silence  of  the  shrine 
While,  blackening  in  the  daily  candle-smoke, 
They  moulder  on  the  damp  wall’s  travertine, 
’Mid  echoes  the  light  footstep  never  woke. 
So,  die  my  pictures  ! surely,  gently  die  ! 

O youth  ! men  praise  so,  — holds  their  praise 
its  worth  ? 


52 


^Moments  toitf)  &rt. 


Blown  harshly,  keeps  the  trump  its  golden  cry  ? 
Tastes  sweet  the  water  with  such  specks  of 


earth  ? 


Robert  Browning. 


L. 

ON  A PORTRAIT  OF  WORDSWORTH,  BY  B.  R. 
HAYDON. 

Wordsworth  upon  Helvellyn ! Let  the  cloud 
Ebb  audibly  along  the  mountain-wind 
Then  break  against  the  rock,  and  show  behind 
The  lowland  valleys  floating  up  to  crowd 
The  sense  with  beauty.  He  with  forehead 
bowed 

And  humble-lidded  eyes,  as  one  inclined 
Before  the  sovran  thought  of  his  own  mind, 

And  very  meek  with  inspirations  proud, 

Takes  here  his  rightful  place  as  poet-priest 
By  the  high  altar,  singing  prayer  and  prayer 
To  the  higher  Heavens.  A noble  vision  free 
Our  Haydon’s  hand  has  flung  out  from  the  mist : 
No  .portrait  this,  with  Academic  air  ! 

This  is  the  poet  and  his  poetry. 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


LL 

The  Greek  in  nature  saw  his  gods  half-hidden 
lurk ; 

And  copying  nature,  wrought  his  gods  into  his 
work. 


W.  W.  Story. 


foments  tottfi 


S3 


LIT. 

THE  POET  EXPRESSES  HIS  FEELINGS  RE- 
SPECTING A PORTRAIT  IN  DELIA’S 
PARLOR. 

I would  I were  that  portly  gentleman, 

With  gold-laced  hat  and  golden-headed  cane, 
Who  hangs  in  Delia’s  parlor  ! for,  whene’er 
From  book  or  needlework  her  looks  arise, 

On  him  converge  the  sunbeams  of  her  eyes, 

And  he  unblamed  may  gaze  upon  My  Fair, 
And  oft  My  Fair  his  favored  form  surveys. 

Oh,  Happy  Picture,  still  on  Her  to  gaze  ! 

I envy  him  ; and  jealous  fear  alarms, 

Lest  the  strong  glance  of  those  divinest  charms 
Warm  him  to  life,  as  in  the  ancient  days, 
When  marble  melted  in  Pygmalion’s  arms. 

I would  I were  that  portly  gentleman, 

With  gold-laced  hat  and  golden-headed  cane ! 

Robert  Southey. 

LIII. 

I say  that  the  art  is  greatest  which  conveys 
to  the  mind  of  the  spectator,  by  any  means, 
whatsoever,  the  greatest  number  of  the  greatest 
ideas ; and  I call  an  idea  great  in  proportion  as 
it  is  received  by  a higher  faculty  of  the  mind, 
and  as  it  more  fully  occupies,  and  in  occupying, 
exercises  and  exalts,  the  faculty  by  which  it  is 
received.  If  this  then  be  the  definition  of  great 
art,  that  of  a great  artist  naturally  follows..  He 
is  the  greatest  artist  who  has  embodied,  in  the 
sum  of  his  works,  the  greatest  number  of  the 
greatest  ideas.  John  Ruskin. 


54 


foments  tottl)  %Lxt* 


LIV. 

THE  ASCENDING  MAGDALEN,  BY  RIBERA. 

Forgiven  woman,  spirit  unafraid 

Borne  upward  by  child  angels  to  the  throne, 
Nearing  the  presence  of  thy  Lord  alone, 
Humanly  outcast,  neither  wed  nor  maid, 

But  with  thy  soul’s  soul  pure,  although  the 
shade 

Of  anguish  past  is  in  thy  eyes,  the  moan 
Of  sorrow  stilled  upon  thy  lips,  its  tone 
Piercing  the  breast  as ’t  were  grief  unallayed. 

Yet  is  thy  ragged  garment  royal  dress, 

And  in  the  Lamb’s  blood  is  thy  mantle  dyed 
From  the  deep  heart  of  slain  and  risen  Love. 
Thy  hair  a halo  is  — each  holy  tress 

That  wiped  thy  Master’s  feet  a sign  above 
All  pardoning  words  thou  shalt  in  peace  abide  ! 

Minna  C.  Smith. 

LV. 

THE  OLD  PICTURE-DEALER. 

The  second  landing-place.  Above, 
Sun-pictures  for  a shilling  each. 

Below,  a haunt  that  Teutons  love, — 

Beer,  smoke  and  pretzels  all  in  reach. 
Between  the  two,  a mouldy  nook 

Where  loungers  hunt  for  things  of  worth  — 
Engraving,  curio,  or  book  — 

Here  drifted  from  all  over  Earth. 


^omenta  tout!)  U 


55 


Be  the  day’s  traffic  more  or  less, 

Old  Brian  seeks  his  Leyden  chair 
Placed  in  the  ante-room’s  recess, 

Our  connoisseur’s  securest  lair : 

Here,  turning  full  the  burner’s  rays, 

Holds  long  his  treasure-trove  in  sight,  — 
Upon  a painting  sets  his  gaze 
Like  some  devoted  eremite. 

The  book-worms  rummage  as  they  will, 
Loud  roars  the  wonted  Broadway  din, 
Life  runs  its  hackneyed  round,  — but  still 
One  tireless  boon  can  Brian  win, — 

Can  picture  in  this  modern  time 

A life  no  more  the  world  shall  know, 

And  dream  of  Beauty  at  her  prime 
In  Parma,  with  Correggio. 

Withered  the  dealer’s  face,  and  old, 

But  wearing  yet  the  first  surprise 
Of  him  whose  eyes  the  light  behold 
Of  Italy  and  Paradise : 

Forever  blest,  forever  young, 

The  rapt  Madonna  poises  there, 

Her  praise  by  hovering  cherubs  sung, 

Her  robes  by  ether  buoyed,  not  air. 

See  from  the  graybeard’s  meerschaum  float 
A cloud  of  incense ! Day  or  night, 

He  needs  must  steal  apart  to  note 
Her  grace,  her  consecrating  light. 


56 


foments  toitf)  3tt. 


With  less  ecstatic  worship  lay, 

Before  his  marble  goddess  prone, 

The  crippled  poet,  that  last  day 

When  in  the  Louvre  he  made  his  moan. 

Warm  grows  the  radiant  masterpiece, 

The  sweetness  of  Correggio ! 

The  visionary  hues  increase, 

Angelic  lustres  come  and  go  ; 

And  still,  as  still  in  Parma  too,  — 

In  Rome,  Bologna,  Florence,  all,  — 

Goes  on  the  outer  world’s  ado, 

Life’s  transitory,  harsh  recall. 

A real  Correggio  ? And  here  ! 

Yes,  to  the  one  impassioned  heart, 
Transfiguring  all,  the  strokes  appear 
That  mark  the  perfect  master’s  art. 

You  question  of  the  proof  ? You  owe 
More  faith  to  fact  than  fancy?  Hush ! 

Look  with  expectant  eyes,  and  know, 

With  him,  the  hand  that  held  the  brush ! 

The  same  wild  thought  that  warmed  from  stone 
The  Venus  of  the  monkish  Gest, 

The  image  of  Pygmalion, 

Here  finds  Correggio  confest. 

And  Art  requires  its  votary : 

The  Queen  of  Heaven  herself  may  pine 
When  these  quaint  rooms  no  longer  see 
The  one  that  knew  her  all  divine. 


jSoments  toitl)  %LxU 


57 


Ah  me!  ah  me,  for  centuries  veiled ! 

(The  desolate  Virgin  then  may  say,) 

Once  more  my  rainbow  tints  are  paled 
With  that  unquestioning  soul  away  — 
Whose  faith  compelled  the  sun,  the  stars, 

To  yield  their  halos  for  my  sake, 

And  saw  through  Time’s  obscuring  bars 
The  Parmese  master’s  glory  break ! 

E.  C.  Stedman. 

L VI. 

TITIAN’S  ASSUMPTION. 

Burst  is  the  iron  gate ! 

And,  from  the  night  of  fate  ; 

Out  of  the  darkness  and  the  gloom  abhorred ; 
Amidst  the  choral  hymn, 

With  cloud  and  cherubim, 

The  Virgin  leaves  the  tomb,  — arisen  like  her 
Lord ! 

Free  in  the  heavens  she  soars, 

While  the  clear  radiance  pours, 

Like  a vast  glory,  round  her  upward  face ; 

And  higher  still  and  higher, 

With  the  angelic  choir, 

The  soul  by  grace  regained,  regains  the  realms 
of  grace. 

In  mortal  shape  ! and  yet, 

Upon  her  brow  is  set, 

The  new  celestial  glory  like  a crown ; 


58 


foments  tottf)  $tt. 


Her  eyes  anticipate 
The  bright  eternal  state ; 

Her  arms  to  heaven  extend ; to  her  the  heavens 
reach  down ! 

We,  with  the  saints  beneath, 

Half  lose  our  mortal  breath, 

With  sense  and  soul  still  following  where  she 
flies ; 

They,  rapt  into  the  light 
Of  the  miraculous  sight,  — 

We,  of  the  wondrous  art  that  gives  it  to  our 
eyes  ! 

, William  Allen  Butler. 


LVIL 


O Attic  shape ! Fair  attitude  ! with  brede 
Of  marble  men  and  maidens  overwrought, 
With  forest  branches  and  the  trodden  weed ; 

Thou,  silent  form  ! dost  tease  us  out  of  thought 
As  doth  eternity  : Cold  Pastoral ! 

When  old  age  shall  this  generation  waste, 
Thou  shalt  remain,  in  midst  of  other  woe 
Than  ours,  a friend  to  man,  to  whom  thou 
sayest, 

“ Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty,”  — that  is  all 
Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to  know. 

Keats. 

(Ode  on  a Grecian  Urn.) 


foments  tottJ)  &tt. 


59 


L VIII. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO’S  STUDIO. 

(He  is  at  work  on  the  Cartoon  of  the  Last  Judgment.) 

Michael  Angelo. 

Why  did  the  Pope  and  his  ten  Cardinals 
Come  here  to  lay  this  heavy  task  upon  me? 

Were  not  the  paintings  on  the  Sistine  ceiling 
Enough  for  them?  They  saw  the  Hebrew 
leader 

Waiting,  and  clutching  his  tempestuous  beard, 
But  heeded  not.  The  bones  of  Julius 
Shook  in  their  sepulchre.  I heard  the  sound ; 
They  only  heard  the  sound  of  their  own  voices. 

In  happy  hours,  when  the  imagination 
Wakes  like  a wind  at  midnight,  and  the  soul 
Trembles  in  all  its  leaves,  it  is  a joy 
To  be  uplifted  on  its  wings,  and  listen 
To  the  prophetic  voices  in  the  air 
That  call  us  onward.  Then  the  work  we  do 
Is  a delight,  and  the  obedient  hand 
Never  grows  weary.  But  how  different  is  it 
In  the  disconsolate,  discouraged  hours, 

When  all  the  wisdom  of  the  world  appears 
As  trivial  as  the  gossip  of  a nurse 
In  a sick-room,  and  all  our  work  seems  useless. 
What  is  it  guides  my  hand,  what  thoughts  pos- 
sess me, 

That  I have  drawn  her  face  among  the  angels,  . 
Where  she  will  be  hereafter  ? O sweet  dreams, 


6o 


foments  tottl) 


That  through  the  vacant  chambers  of  my  heart 
Walk  in  the  silence,  as  familiar  phantoms 
Frequent  an  ancient  house,  what  will  ye  with  me  ? 

Henry  W.  Longfellow. 

LIX. 

THE  ARTIST. 

Nothing  the  greatest  artist  can  conceive 
That  every  marble  block  doth  not  confine 
Within  itself ; and  only  its  design 
The  hand  that  follows  intellect  can  achieve. 
The  ill  I flee,  the  good  that  I believe, 

In  thee,  fair  lady,  lofty  and  divine, 

Thus  hidden  lie ; and  so  that  death  be  mine, 
Art,  of  desired  success,  doth  me  bereave. 
Love  is  not  guilty,  then,  nor  thy  fair  face, 

Nor  fortune,  cruelty,  nor  great  disdain, 

Of  my  disgrace,  nor  chance  nor  destiny, 

If  in  thy  heart  both  death  and  love  find  place 
At  the  same  time,  and  if  my  humble  brain, 
Burning,  can  nothing  draw  but  death  from 
•thee. 

Michael  Angelo.  (7V.  by  H.  W.  Longfellow.) 
LX. 

Art  faculty  is  innate  : it  cannot  be  acquired. 
It  is  a moral  and  intellectual  force  which  may 
be  enhanced  by  cultivation,  but  cannot  by  any 
such  means  be  created. 


Seymour  Haden. 


foments  font!) 


61 


LXI. 

THE  CHRIST. 

(Suggested  by  the  Pictures  of  Tissot.) 

Yet  look  we  for  another  — who  shall  paint  . 

The  Christ  of  wide  creation’s  growing  claim. 
The  hope  on  earth  for  sinner  and  for  saint, 
Conceived  of  shifting  ages,  yet  the  same? 

Shall  art  prevail  till  visible  endure 

The  self-avenging  God,  the  shepherd’s  scar 
The  rod  and  staff  that  lead  through  death  se- 
cure, . 

The  faith  of  childhood,  manhood’s  drifting 

spar? 

Stupendous  task!  Unto  each  soul  remains, 

Soft  halo’d  as  befits  a spirit  guest, 

The  Christ,  whose  hand  struck  off  his  captive 
chains, 

The  hidden  Daysman  of  each  human  breast : 

The  magdalen,  the  mother,  and  the  nun, 

The  fisherman  of  tossing  Galilee, 

The  Puritan,  the  leper,  and  the  son 
Of  modern  stress  in  his  complexity. 

One  knew  him  walking  on  the  waves,  and  one 
Loved  him  the  Sabbath  morning  ’mid  the 
corn; 

Another  feasting ; some  when  he  had  done 
Strange  healing  — few  as  prophet  of  the 
thorn. 


62 


JHamcnts  tottj)  Strt, 


Wild  hearts  have  met  him  in  the  wilderness; 

And  more  close  by,  within  the  city  wall, 

Have  touched  the  garment  that  perchance  may 
bless  — 

No  fleshly  image  satisfies  us  all. 

Though  quick  with  love  the  painted  form  may 
be, 

“ Such,  Lord,  was  never  mine,”  we  cry.  Oh, 
then, 

Look  on  the  face  of  friend  or  foe  and  see 
God’s  masterpiece,  — the  deathless  Christ  in 
men ! 

Martha  Gilbert  Dickinson. 
LXll . 

EURYDICE  TO  ORPHEUS. 

(A  Picture  by  Leighton.) 

But  give  them  me,  the  mouth,  the  eyes,  the 

fcrow ! 

Let  them  once  more  absorb  me  ! One  look  now 
Will  lap  me  round  forever,  not  to  pass 
Out  of  its  light,  though  darkness  lie  beyond : 
Hold  me  but  safe  again  within  the  bond 
Of  one  immortal  look  ! All  woe  that  was, 
Forgotten,  and  all  terror  that  may  be, 

Defied,  — no  past  is  mine,  no  future  : look  at 
me ! 


Robert  Browning. 


foments  tottl)  %LxU 


63 


LXIII. 

SAINT  CECILIA. 

A woman  with  a charmed  hand 

To  wake  sweet  music,  — yea,  a saint 

Whose  home  is  in  the  mystic  land, 

Where  poets  sing  and  painters  paint. 

She  wears  a soft  and  Old  World  grace, 

Her  eyes  are  large  with  revery ; 

Her  solemn  organ  fills  the  place 
With  sounds  that  set  the  spirit  free. 

The  lily  is  her  flower,  and  meek 
Her  look  is,  as  the  flower’s  own; 

She  hath  no  color  in  her  cheek; 

One  thinks  of  her  as  oft  alone. 

Rubens  once  wrought  her,  playing  there, 

And  made  her  beautiful,  yet  missed 

The  holiness,  the  pensive  air 

Of  one  whose  face  high  heaven  has  kissed. 

And  Carlo  Dolci  tried,  nor  failed : 

Cecilia  sits  and  plays,  and  seems 

A saint  whose  soul  is  unassailed, 

And  yet  the  woman  of  our  dreams  ! 

Richard  Burton. 

LXIV. 

Genius  finds  its  own  road  and  carries  its  own 
lamp. 


Willmott. 


64 


foments  toitl)  %Lxt 


LXV. 

UNTRAMMELLED  ART. 

0 Poet-Painter  — Thou  whose  throbbing  lyre 

With  melody  is  thrilled, 

Ye  know  but  half  how  Inspiration’s  fire 
Is  quenched  and  chilled 
In  the  dull  stream  Development,  half  mire  ! 

O Painter  fully-primed  with  dreams  that  fleet, 
Is  thy  flat  Canvas  not  a winding-sheet 
Placed  on  a Stretcher  for  thy  vision’s 
corse  ? 

A pen  but  cramps  thee,  Pegasus,  my  horse ; 
And  five-lined  Paper  frights  the  Ethereal  Quire. 

1 ’ve  only  known  from  first  to  last, 

A single  Painter  I could  love ; 

For  he  had  realized  the  Vast 
Eternal  Truth  proclaimed  above: 

In  him  Conception  towered  sublime 
And  Inspiration  blazed  intense. 

Oh,  many,  many  is  the  time 
He ’s  told  me  so  in  confidence. 

I ’ve  seen  him,  with  a trembling  light 
Of  Inspiration  in  his  hair, 

Before  a Canvas  purely  white 
Ecstatically  sit  and  glare  : 

He  daubed  no  stultifying  Paint 
Upon  the  pure  unsullied  Sheet; 

Yet  when  he  rose  (a  little  faint) 

The  noble  Picture  was  complete ! 


|5toments  toitf)  3Lrt. 


65 


His  vibrant  soul  had  breathed  the  scene 
Into  the  cloth  in  perfect  wise ; 

No  marring  Brush  had  come  between 
To  limit  and  to  vulgarize  : 

All  subtleties  of  Line  and  Curve, 

Of  Tint  and  Tone,  stood  fixt  and  fair, 
Though  Vulgar  Minds  did  not  observe 
That  there  was  any  Picture  there. 


The  Critics  — pure  Perception  — stand 
In  speechless  Rapture  for  a time, 

Then  murmurously  sigh,  “ How  Grand ! ” 

“ What  perfect  Handling ! ” “ Too  Sublime ! 79 

But  no  Description  can  convey 

What  Beauty  in  his  Canvas  lurks  — - 
I ’ll  show  you,  when  you  come  my  way, 

A fine  Collection  of  his  works. 

James  F.  Sullivan. 

LXVI. 

TO  VITTORIA  COLONNA. 

Lady,  how  can  it  chance  — yet  this  we  see 
In  long  experience  — that  will  longer  last 
A living  image  carved  from  quarries  vast 
Than  its  own  maker,  who  dies  presently  ? 

Cause  yieldeth  to  effect  if  this  so  be, 

And  even  Nature  is  by  Art  surpassed ; 

This  know  I,  who  to  Art  have  given  the  past, 
But  see  that  Time  is  breaking  faith  with  me. 

5 


66 


foments  toitf)  2lrt. 


Perhaps  on  both  of  us  long  life  can  I 
Either  in  color  or  in  stone  bestow, 

By  now  portraying  each  in  look  and  mien ; 

So  that  a thousand  years  after  we  die, 

How  fair  thou  wast,  and  I how  full  of  woe, 
And  wherefore  I so  loved  thee,  may  be  seen. 

Michael  Angelo. 

(Tr.  by  H.  W.  Longfellow.) 


LXVII. 

Painting,  or  art  generally,  as  such,  with  all  its 
technicalities,  difficulties,  and  particular  ends, 
is  nothing  but  a noble  and  expressive  language, 
invaluable  as  the  vehicle  of  thought,  but  by  itself 
nothing.  He  who  has  learned  what  is  commonly 
considered  the  whole  art  of  painting,  that  is,  the 
art  of  representing  any  natural  object  faithfully, 
has  as  yet  only  learned  the  language  by  which  his 
thoughts  are  to  be  expressed.  He  has  done 
just  as  much  towards  being  that  which  we 
ought  to  respect  as  a great  painter,  as  a man 
who  has  learned  to  express  himself  grammati- 
cally and  melodiously  has  towards  being  a great 
poet. 

John  Ruskin. 

L XVI II. 

A flattering  painter,  who  made  it  his  care 
To  draw  men  as  they  ought  to  be,  not  as  they 
are. 


Goldsmith. 


foments  tottf)  &vt 


67 


LXIX. 

OLD  PICTURES  IN  FLORENCE. 

I. 

The  morn  when  first  it  thunders  in  March, 

The  eel  in  the  pond  gives  a leap,  they  say. 
As  I leaned  and  looked  over  the  aloed  arch 
Of  the  villa-gate  this  warm  March  day, 

No  flash  snapped,  no  dumb  thunder  rolled 
In  the  valley  beneath  where,  white  and  wide 
And  washed  by  the  morning  water-gold, 
Florence  lay  out  on  the  mountain-side. 

II. 

River  and  bridge  and  street  and  square 
Lay  mine,  as  much  at  my  beck  and  call, 
Through  the  live  translucent  bath  of  air, 

As  the  sights  in  a magic  crystal-ball. 

And  of  all  I saw  and  of  all  I praised, 

The  most  to  praise  and  the  best  to  see 
Was  the  startling  bell-tower  Giotto  raised : 

But  why  did  it  more  than  startle  me  ? 

HI. 

Giotto,  how,  with  that  soul  of  yours, 

Could  you  play  me  false  who  loved  you  so  ? 
Some  slights  if  a certain  heart  endures 

Yet  it  feels,  I would  have  your  fellows  know 
I’  faith,  I perceive  not  why  I should  care, 

To  break  a silence  that  suits  them  best, 

But  the  thing  grows  somewhat  hard  to  bear 
When  I find  a Giotto  join  the  rest. 


68 


foments  totti)  &tt. 


IV. 

On  the  arch  where  olives  overhead 
Print  the  blue  sky  with  twig  and  leaf 
(That  sharp-curled  leaf  which  they  never  shed), 
’Twixt  the  aloes,  I used  to  learn  in  chief, 

And  mark  through  the  winter  afternoons, 

By  a gift  God  grants  me  now  and  then, 

In  the  mild  decline  of  those  suns  like  moons, 
Who  walked  in  Florence,  besides  her  men. 

v. 

They  might  chirp  and  chaffer,  come  and  go 
For  pleasure  or  profit,  her  men  alive  — 

My  business  was  hardly  with  them,  I trow, 

But  with  empty  cells  of  the  human  hive  ; 

— With  the  chapter-room,  the  cloister-porch, 
The  church’s  apsis,  aisle  or  nave, 

Its  crypt,  one  fingers  along  with  a torch, 

Its  face  set  full  for  the  sun  to  shave. 

VI. 

Wherever  a fresco  peels  and  drops, 

Wherever  an  outline  weakens  and  wanes 
Till  the  latest  life  in  the  painting  stops, 

Stands  One  whom  each  fainter  pulse-tick 
pains  : 

One,  wishful  each  scrap  should  clutch  the  brick, 
Each  tinge  not  wholly  escape  the  plaster, 

— A lion  who  dies  of  an  ass’s  kick, 

The  wronged  great  soul  of  an  ancient  Master. 


69 


^foments  tottl)  art. 


VII. 

For  oh,  this  world  and  the  wrong  it  does  ! 

They  are  safe  in  heaven  with  their  backs  to  it, 
The  Michaels  and  Rafaels,  you  hum  and  buzz 
Round  the  works  of,  you  of  .the  little  wit . 

Do  their  eyes  contract  to  the  earth’s  old  scope, 
Now  that  they  see  God  face  to  face, 

And  have  all  attained  to  be  poets,  I hope? 

’T  is  their  holiday  now,  in  any  case. 


VIII. 

Much  they  reck  of  your  praise  and  you ! 

But  the  wronged  great  souls  can  they  De 
quit 

Of  a world  where  their  work  is  all  to  do,  . 

Where  you  style  them,  you  of  the  little  wit, 
Old  Master  This  and  Early  the  Other, 

Not  dreaming  that  Old  and  N ew  are  fellows : 
A younger  succeeds  to  an  elder  brother, 

Da  Vincis  derive  in  good  time  from  Dellos. 


IX. 

And  here  where  your  praise  might  yield  returns, 
And  a handsome  word  or  two  give  help, 
Here,  after  your  kind,  the  mastiff  girns, 

And  the  puppy  pack  of  poodles  yelp. 

What,  not  a word  for  Stefano  there, 

Of  brow  once  prominent  and  starry, 

Called  Nature’s  Ape  and  the  world’s  despair 
For  his  peerless  painting  ? (see  Vasari.) 


7 o 


foments  toitf)  &rt. 


x. 

There  stands  the  Master.  Study,  my  friends, 
What  a man’s  work  comes  to  ! So  he  plans  it, 
Performs  it,  perfects  it,  makes  amends 

For  the  toiling  and  moiling,  and  then,  sic 
transit ! 

Happier  the  thrifty  blind-folk  labor, 

With  upturned  eye  while  the  hand  is  busy, 
Not  sidling  a glance  at  the  coin  of  their  neigh- 
bor ! 

’T  is  looking  downward  makes  one  dizzy. 


XI. 

“ If  you  knew  their  work  you  would  deal  your 
dole.” 

May  I take  upon  me  to  instruct  you  ? 

When  Greek  Art  ran  and  reached  the  goal, 
Thus  much  had  the  world  to  boast  in  fructu — 
The  Truth  of  Man,  as  by  God  first  spoken, 
Which  the  actual  generations  garble, 

Was  re-uttered,  and  Soul  (which  Limbs  be- 
token) 

And  Limbs  (Soul  informs)  made  new  in 
marble. 

XII. 

So,  you  saw  yourself  as  you  wished  you  were, 
As  you  might  have  been,  as  you  cannot  be  ; 
Earth  here,  rebuked  by  Olympus  there  : 

And  grew  content  in  your  poor  degree 


jHotncnts  toitl)  Sltt. 


71 


With  your  little  power,  by  those  .Blues’  god- 
your  little  .cope,  by  their  eyes'  full  s~y, 

xiii. 

V^S^^heSou^h. 

V0H„ ’ieCh?r5::  .™VoB»»-- 

Apollo  ? Niobe ’s  the  grander  ! 

Y0^;"r^.r,rR«S«e.,|rw: 

Y You  die  _ there ’s  the  dying  Alexander. 

XIV. 

q0  testing  your  weakness  by  their  strength, 

Your  meagre  charms  by  their  rounded  beauty, 

4 A..  iu  y- .rflmi's“S5: 

You  learned— to  submit  is  a mortal  duty 

When  I say  “you,”  ’tis  the  commonsoul, 

The  collective,  I mean  : the  race  o 
That  receives  life  in  parts  to  live  in  ’ 

And  grow  here  according  to  God  s clea  p 

XV. 

Growth  came  when,  looking  your  last  on  them 
Yot  turned  your  eyes  inwardly  one  fine  day 


7 2 


JHoments  tottf)  &rt. 


And  cried  with  a start  — What  if  we  so  small 
Be  greater  and  grander  the  while  than  they? 
Are  they  perfect  of  lineament,  perfect  of  stature  ? 

In  both,  of  such  lower  types  are  we 
Precisely  because  of  our  wider  nature ; 

F or  time,  theirs  — ours,  for  eternity. 

XVI. 

To-day’s  brief  passion  limits  their  range ; 

It  seethes  with  the  morrow  for  us  and  more. 
They  are  perfect  — how  else  ? they  shall  never 
change : 

We  are  faulty  — why  not?  we  have  time  in 
store. 

The  Artificer’s  hand  is  not  arrested 
With  us ; we  are  rough-hewn,  nowise  polished. 
They  stand  for  our  copy,  and,  once  invested 
With  all  they  can  teach,  we  shall  see  them 
abolished. 

XVII. 

’T is  a life-long  toil  till  our  lump  be  leaven  — 
The  better!  What’s  come  to  perfection 
perishes. 

Things  learned  on  earth,  we  shall  practise  in 
heaven : 

Works  done  least  rapidly,  Art  most  cherishes. 
Thyself  shalt  afford  the  example,  Giotto  1 
Thy  one  work,  not  to  decrease  or  diminish, 
Done  at  a stroke,  was  just  (was  it  not  ?)  “ O ” 
Thy  great  Campanile  is  still  to  finish. 


foments  toitf)  3tt 


73 


XVIII. 

Is  it  true  that  we  are  now,  and  shall  be  here- 
after, 

But  what  and  where  depend  on  life’s  minute  ? 
Hails  heavenly  cheer  or  infernal  laughter 
Our  first  step  out  of  the  gulf  or  in  itffr 
Shall  Man,  such  step  within  his  endeavor, 
Man’s  face,  have  no  more  play  and  action 
Than  joy  which  is  crystallized  forever, 

Or  grief,  an  eternal  petrifaction? 


XIX. 

On  which  I conclude,  that  the  early  painters, 

To  cries  of  “ Greek  Art  and  what  more  wish 
you  ? ” — 

Replied,  “ To  become  now  self-acquainters, 

And  paint  man,  man,  whatever  the  issue ! 
Make  new  hopes  shine  through  the  flesh  they 
fray, 

New  fears  aggrandize  the  rags  and  tatters : 
To  bring  the  invisible  full  into  play, 

Let  the  visible  go  to  the  dogs  — what  matters  ? ” 


xx. 

Give  these,  I exhort  you,  their  guerdon  and 
glory 

For  daring  so  much,  before  they  well  did  it. 
The  first  of  the  new,  in  our  race’s  story, 

Beats  the  last  of  the  old;  Jt  is  no  idle  quiddit. 


74 


foments  tottl)  Qvt 


The  worthies  began  a revolution, 

Which  if  on  earth  you  intend  to  acknowledge, 
Why,  honor  them  now ! (ends  my  allocution) 
Nor  confer  your  degree  when  the  folks  leave 
college. 


XXI. 

There ’s  a fancy  some  lean  to  and  others  hate  — 
That,  when  this  life  is  ended,  begins 
New  work  for  the  soul  in  another  state, 

Where  it  strives  and  gets  weary,  loses  and 
wins : 

Where  the  strong  and  the  weak,  this  world’s 
congeries, 

Repeat  in  large  what  they  practised  in  small, 
Through  life  after  life  in  unlimited  series ; 

Only  the  scale ’s  to  be  changed,  that ’s  all. 


XXII. 

Yet  I hardly  know.  When  a soul  has  seen 
By  the  means  of  Evil  that  Good  is  best, 

And,  through  earth  and  its  noise,  what  is 
heaven’s  serene,  — 

When  our  faith  in  the  same  has  stood  the 
test  — 

Why,  the  child  grown  man,  you  burn  the  rod, 
The  uses  of  labor  are  surely  done ; 

There  remaineth  a rest  for  the  people  of  God : 
And  I have  had  troubles  enough,  for  one. 


foments  to  it!)  art. 


75 


XXIII. 

But  at  any  rate  I have  loved  the  season 
Of  Art’s  spring-birth  so  dim  and  dewy; 

My  sculptor  is  Nicolo  the  Pisan, 

My  painter  — who  but  Cimabue  ? 

Nor  even  was  man  of  them  all  indeed, 

From  these  to  Ghiberti  and  Ghirlandajo, 
Could  say  that  he  missed  my  critic-meed. 

So,  now  to  my  special  grievance  — heigh-ho  ! 


xxiv. 

Their  ghosts  still  stand,  as  I said  before, 
Watching  each  fresco  flaked  and  rasped, 
Blocked  up,  knocked  out,  or  whitewashed  o’er  : 
— No  getting  again  what  the  Church  has 
grasped ! 

The  works  on  the  wall  must  take  their  chance  ; 
“ Works  never  conceded  to  England’s  thick 
clime  ! ” 

(I  hope  they  prefer  their  inheritance 
Of  a bucketful  of  Italian  quicklime.) 


XXV. 

When  they  go  at  length,  with  such  a shaking 
Of  heads  o’er  the  old  delusion,  sadly 
Each  master  his  way  through  the  black  streets 
taking, 

Where  many  a lost  work  breathes  though 
badly  — 


76 


foments  toitb  &rt. 


Why  don’t  they  bethink  them  of  who  has 
merited  ? 

Why  not  reveal,  while  their  pictures  dree 
Such  doom,  how  a captive  might  be  out-ferreted? 
Why  is  it  they  never  remember  me  ? 


XXVI. 

Not  that  I expect  the  great  Bigordi, 

Nor  Sandro  to  hear  me,  chivalric,  bellicose ; 
Nor  the  wronged  Lippino  ; and  not  a word  I 
Say  of  a scrap  of  Fra  Angelico’s:. 

But  are  you  too  fine,  Taddeo  Gaddi, 

To  grant  me  a taste  of  your  intonaco, 

Some  Jerome  that  seeks  the  heaven  with  a sad 
eye  ? 

Not  a churlish  saint,  Lorenzo  Monaco? 


XXVII. 

Could  not  the  ghost  with  the  close  red  cap, 

My  Pollajolo,  the  twice  a craftsman, 

Save  me  a sample,  give  me  the  hap 

Of  a muscular  Christ  that  shows  the  draughts- 
man ? 

No  Virgin  by  him  the  somewhat  petty, 

Of  finical  touch  and  tempera  crumbly  — 
Could  not  Alesso  Baldovinetti 

Contribute  so  much,  I ask  him  humbly  ? 


foments  tottj)  %LxU 


77 


XXVIII. 

Margheritone  of  Arezzo, 

With  the  grave-clothes  garb  and  swaddling 
barret 

(Why  purse  up  mouth  and  beak  in  a pet  so, 

You  bald  old  saturnine  poll-clawed  parrot  ?) 

Not  a poor  glimmering  Crucifixion, 

Where  in  the  foreground  kneels  the  donor  ? 

If  such  remain,  as  is  my  conviction, 

The  hoarding  it  does  you  but  little  honor. 

XXIX. 

They  pass ; for  them  the  panels  may  thrill, 

The  tempera  grow  alive  and  tinglish  : 

Their  pictures  are  left  to  the  mercies  still 

Of  dealers  and  stealers,  Jews  and  the  English, 

Who,  seeing  mere  money’s  worth  in  their  prize, 
Will  sell  it  to  somebody  calm  as  Zeno 

At  naked  High  Art,  and  in  ecstasies 
Before  some  clay-cold  vile  Carlino  ! 

XXX. 

No  matter  for  these  ! But,  Giotto,  you, 

Have  you  allowed,  as  the  town-tongues  babble 
it  — 

Oh,  never ! it  shall  not  be  counted  true  — 

That  a certain  precious  little  tablet 

Which  Buonarroti  eyed  like  a lover, 

Was  buried  so  long  in  oblivion’s  womb 

And,  left  for  another  than  I to  discover, 

Turns  up  at  last ! and  to  whom  ? — to  whom  ? 


7 8 


foments  toitfc  3lrt. 


, XXXI. 

I,  that  have  haunted  the  dim  San  Spirito, 

(Or  was  it  rather  the  Ognissanti  ? ) 

Patient  on  altar-step  planting  a weary  toe  ! 

Nay,  I shall  have  it  yet ! Detur  amanti ! 
My  Koh-i-noor  — or  (if  that ’s  a platitude) 
Jewel  of  Giamschid,  the  Persian  Sofi’s  eye; 
So,  in  anticipative  gratitude, 

What  if  I take  up  my  hope  and  prophesy  ? 


XXXII. 

When  the  hour  grows  ripe,  and  a certain  dotard 
Is  pitched,  no  parcel  that  needs  invoicing, 

To  the  worst  side  of  the  Mont  St.  Gothard, 

We  shall  begin  by  way  of  rejoicing ; 

None  of  that  shooting  the  sky  (blank  cartridge), 
Nor  a civic  guard,  all  plumes  and  lacquer, 
Hunting  Radetzky’s  soul  like  a partridge 
Over  Morello  with  squib  and  cracker. 


XXXIII. 

This  time  we  ’ll  shoot  better  game  and  bag  ’em 
hot : 

No  mere  display  at  the  stone  of  Dante, 

But  a kind  of  sober  Witanagemot 

(Ex : “ Casa  Guidi,”  quod  videas  ante) 

Shall  ponder,  once  Freedom  restored  to  Florence, 
How  Art  may  return  that  departed  with  her. 
Go,  hated  house,  go  each  trace  of  the  Loraine’s, 
And  bring  us  the  days  of  Orgagna  hither ! 


foments  toitl)  3lrt. 


79 


XXXIV. 

How  we  shall  prologuize,  how  we  shall  perorate, 
Utter  fit  things  upon  art  and  history, 

Feel  truth  at  blood-heat  and  falsehood  at  zero 
rate, 

Make  of  the  want  of  the  age  no  mystery ; 
Contrast  the  fructuous  and  sterile  eras, 

Show — monarchy  ever  its  uncouth  cub  licks 
Out  of  the  bear’s  shape  into  Chimaera’s, 

While  Pure  Art’s  birth  is  still  the  republic’s ! 


xxxv. 

Then  one  shall  propose  in  a speech  (curt  Tus- 
can, 

Expurgate  and  sober,  with  scarcely  an  “ issz- 
mo  ”), 

To  end  now  our  half-told  tale  of  Cambuscan, 
And  turn  the  bell-tower’s  alt  to  altissimo  ; 
And,  fine  as  the  beak  of  a young  beccaccia, 

The  Campanile,  the  Duomo’s  fit  ally, 

Shall  soar  up  in  gold  full  fifty  braccia, 
Completing  Florence,  as  Florence,  Italy. 


xxxvi. 

Shall  I be  alive  that  morning  the  scaffold 
Is  broken  away,  and  the  long-pent  fire, 

Like  the  golden  hope  of  the  world,  unbaffied 
Springs  from  its  sleep,  and  up  goes  the 
spire, 


8o 


foments  9trt, 


While,  “God  and  the  People”  plain  for  its 
motto, 

Thence  the  new  tricolor  flaps  at  the  sky  ? 

At  least  to  foresee  that  glory  of  Giotto 

And  Florence  together,  the  first  am  I ! 

Robert  Browning. 

LXX. 

AFTER  RUYSDAEL. 

Through  briery  ways,  from  underneath 
The  far-off  sadness  of  the  gold 

That  fades  above  the  sun,  the  waves 
Swift  to  our  very  feet  are  rolled. 

Above,  beyond,  to  either  side, 

The  sombre  woods  bend  overhead; 

And  underneath,  the  wild  brown  waves 
Leap  joyously,  with  lightsome  tread, 

From  rock  to  rock,  and  laugh  and  sing, 

Like  lonely  maids  in  woods  at  play ; 

Till  in  the  cold,  still  pool  below, 

A-sudden  checked,  they  stand  at  bay, 

Like  girls  who,  in  their  mood  of  joy, 

To  this  more  solemn  woodland  glide, 

And  with  some  brief,  sweet  terror  touched, 
Stand  wistful,  trembling,  tender-eyed. 

What  half-felt  sense  of  something  gone, 

What  sadness  in  the  moveless  woods  ; 

What  sorrow  haunts  yon  amber  sky, 

That  over  all  so  darkly  broods ! 

S.  Weir  Mitchell. 


JHomente  hrit!)  Strt 


81 


LXXI. 

STUDENTS’  DAY  IN  THE  NATIONAL 
GALLERY. 

Out  of  all  the  hundred  fair  Madonnas 
Seen  in  many  a rich  and  distant  city  — 

Sweet  Madonnas,  with  the  mother’s  bosoms; 
Sad  Madonnas,  with  the  eyes  of  anguish; 

Rapt  Madonnas,  caught  in  clouds  to  heaven 
(Clouds  of  golden,  glad,  adoring  Angels)  — 

She  of  Florence,  in  the  chair,  — so  perfect! 

She  that  was  the  “ Grand  Duke’s  ” wealth  and  ’ 
glory, 

She  that  makes  the  picture  “of  the  Goldfinch,” 
Ghirlandajo’s,  with  the  cloak  and  jewels ; 

Guido’s  Queen,  whom  men  and  angels  worship, 
Della  Robbia’s  best ; and  that  sweet  “ Perla  ” — 
Seville’s  bright  boast  — Mary  of  Murillo 
(Painted  — so  they  vow  — “with  milk  and 
roses  ”), 

Guido  Reni’s  Quadro  at  Bologna, 

Munich’s  masterpiece,  grim  Diirer’s  Goddess; 
Yes  ! and  thy  brave  work  — Beltraffio  mio ! — 
Many  as  the  lessons  are  I owe  them, 

Thanks  and  wonder;  worship;  grateful  mem- 
ories, 

Oftenest  I shall  think  of  Perugino’s. 

Do  you  know  it  ? Either  side  a triptych 
Stands  an  armed  Archangel  — as  to  guard  her  — 
Glorious  — with  great  wings,  and  shining  armor : 
In  the  middle  panel,  pure  and  tender, 

Clasping  close  her  hands,  with  adoration 
6 


82 


foments  toitf)  $rt. 


(All  the  Mother’s  love  — the  Mortal’s  worship 
In  their  yearning,  in  their  reverence,  painted), 
Gazes  Mary  on  the  Child.  A seraph 
Holds  Him,  smiling,  at  her  knees;  and, smiling, 
Looks  she  down,  with  spirit  humbly-happy, 

Full  — to  heart’s  brim  — of  the  Peace  of 
Heaven. 

Reverence  mingles  with  the  Mother’s  passion, 
But  no  touch  of  sadness,  or  of  doubting. 

Far  away  a river  runneth  seaward 
(Little  now -like  Truth  — like  Truth,  to 
widen), 

Leads  the  light  across  a blue  dim  country, 

Under  peaks  — by  forests  to  the  ocean . 

Soft  and  warm,  a pearly  sky  broods  over 
Where  three  Winged-Ones,  at  the  Father’s  foot- 
stool, 

Sing  the  “ peace  and  good-will  ” song  to  mortals. 

If  you  ask  me  why  that  Perugino 
Of  the  rest  can  never  be  forgotten, 

• Let  this  serve : I learned  a lesson  by  it, 
Watching  one  whose  light  and  faithful  fingers  — 
Following  touch  by  touch  her  lovely  labor  — . 
Caught  the  Master’s  trick,  and  made  him 
modern. 

While  she  bent  above  her  new  Madonna, 

Laid  the  splendid  smalts,  and  touched  the  crim- 
sons, 

Swept  the  shadows  under  the  gilt  tresses, 
Smoothed  the  sinless  brows,  and  drooped  the 
eyelids,  — 


ptmtnta  tott^  &rt. 


83 


What  the  Master  did,  so  also  doing,  — 

I bethought  me,  “ True  and  good  the  toil  is  ! 
Noble  thus  to  double  gifts  of  beauty ! 

Yet,  alas  ! this  4 peace  and  good-will  ’ anthem,  — 
If  the  dear  Madonna  knew  what  ages  — 

Slowly  following  ages  — would  creep  o’er  us, 
And  those  words  be  still  as  wind  that  passes, 
Breathing  fragrance  from  a land  we  know  not,  ■— 
Sighing  music  to  a tune  we  catch  not, 

Stirring  hearts,  as  leaves,  i’  the  night,  a little 
Shake,  and  sleep  again,  and  wait  for  sunlight 
(Sweet,  glad  sunlight ! oh,  so  long  a-coming !), 
Would  she  smile  so  ? I had  painted  rather 

(While  she  listened  to  those  singing  Angels) 

Mary,  with  a sword-blade  in  her  bosom 
(Sword  that  was  to  pierce  her  heart,  of  all 
hearts  !)  ; 

I had  shown  her  with  deep  eyes  of  trouble, 

Half  afraid  to  credit  that  Evangel ; 

I had  limned  her  4 pondering  all  those  sayings,’ 
All  our  later  agonies  foreseeing, 

After  all  our  years  have  4 heard  the  tidings.’  ” 

But  the  Artist,  painting  bold  and  largely, 
Washing  soft  and  clear  the  broadening  colors ; 
With  a liberal  brush,  at  skilful  working, 

Linking  lights  and  shadows  on  the  visage, 
Dropped  by  hazard  there , one  drop  of  water  f 
“Lo,  a tear!”  I thought;  44  that  teaches  Pie- 
tro ! 

That  is  wiser  than  the  Master’s  wisdom  ! 

Now  the  picture’s  meaning  will  be  perfect ! 


84 


foments  tottl)  Slrt. 


For  she  could  not  be  so  calm  Christ  s 


Mother  — 
Could  she  ? even 


though  Archangels  kept 


her!  . . 

Could  she  ? even  though  those  sang  m Heaven . 
Knowing  how  her  world  would  roll  beyond 


Ulciii, 

Twenty  centuries  past  this  sacred  momen  , 

Out  of  sound  of  this  angelic  singing , . 

Loaded  with  the  wrongs  Christ’s  justice  rights 


Reddened  with  the  blood  Christ’s  teachings 
stanch  not, 

Reeking  with  the  tears  Christ’s  pity  stays  not : 
Let  the  tear  shine  there  ! it  suits  the  story  . 
Tear  and  smile  go  wondrous  well  together  . 
Seeing  that  this  song  was  sung  by  Angels; 
Seeing  that  the  foolish  world  gainsays  it. 

That  one  lustrous  drop  completes  the  picture . 
You  forgot  it ! Peter  of  Perugia  ! ” 


Ah ! I did  not  know  an  Artist’s  wisdom ! 

I had  still  to  learn  my  deepest  lesson : _ 

She  I watched,  with  better  thought  inspired, 

Took  some  tender  color  in  her  penci 

(Faint  dawn-color,— blush  of  rose,  — I marked 

Touched”* the  tear,  and  melted  it  to  brightness, 
Spread  it  in  a heavenly  smile  all  over, 
Magically  made  it  turn  to  service ; 

Till  that  tear,  charged  with  its  rosy  tintings, 


jj Moments  tottf)  3tot« 


85 


Deepened  the  first  sweet  smile,  and  left  it  love- 
lier, — 

Like  the  Master’s  work,  complete,  sufficient ! 

Then  I thought : 4 4 Pietro’s  wise  Madonna 
Was  too  wise  to  weep  at  little  sorrows  ! 

Christ,  and  She,  and  Heaven,  and  all  the  angels 
Last ; — ’t  is  sin,  and  grief,  alone  which  passes  ! 
Roses  grow  of  dew,  and  smiles  from  weeping  ! 
.Sweetest  sr^ile  is  made  of  saddest  tear-drop  ! 
She  hath  not  forgotten  we  shall  suffer  ! 

In  her  heart  that  sword  — to  the  heft  — is 
planted, 

But  beyond  the  years,  she  sees  Time  over ; 

Past  the  Calvary  she  counts  4 the  mansions.’ 
Dear  Madonna  ! — wise  to  be  so  happy  ! 

Should  you  weep,  because  we  have  not  listened? 
We  shall  listen  ! and  His  Mother  knows  it ! ” 

This  is  why  — of  many  rare  Madonnas  — 
Most  of  all  I think  on  Perugino’s  ; 

I who  know  so  many  more  and  love  them! 

This  is  why  I thank  my  gentle  artist, 

She  who  taught  me  that,  a student’s  wisdom  ! 

Sir  Edwin  Arnold. 


LXXII. 

Genius  is  always  a surprise,  but  it  is  born 
with  great  advantages  when  the  stock  from 
which  it  springs  has  been  long  under  cultiva- 
tion. 


O.  W.  Holmes. 


86 


foments  toit&  art. 


LXXIII. 

A MADONNA  OF  DAGNAN-BOUVERET. 

I. 

Oh,  brooding  thought  of  dread ! 

Oh,  calm  of  coming  grief ! 

Oh,  mist  of  tears  unshed 
Above  that  shining  head. 

That  for  an  hour  too  brief 
Lies  on  thy  nurturing  knee ! 

How  shall  we  pity  thee, 

Mother  of  sorrows  — sorrows  yet  to  be  ! 

ii. 

That  babyhood  unknown, 

With  all  of  bright  or  fair 
That  lingers  in  our  own, 

By  every  hearth  has  shone. 

Each  year  that  light  we  share 
As  Bethlehem  saw  it  shine. 

Be  ours  the  comfort  thine, ^ 

Mother  of  consolations  all  divine ! 

Robert  Underwood  Johnson. 

{By  permission  from  “ The  Winter  Hour , and  Other 
Poems,”  N.  Y.,  The  Century  Co.) 


L XXI V. 

But  who  can  paint 

Like  Nature  ? Can  imagination  boast, 

Amid  its  gay  creations,  hues  like  hers  ? 

James  Thomson. 


foments  to  it!)  Strt. 


8 7 


y.  ■'yee. <*,'  ,,  , 

IN  AN  ARTIST’S  STUDIO.  ‘ ' 

One  face  looks  out  from  all  his  canvases, 

One  self-same  figure  sits  or  walks  or  leans  ; 

We  found  her  hidden  just  behind  those 
screens, 

That  mirror  gave  back  all  her  loveliness. 

A queen  in  opal  or  in  ruby  dress, 

A nameless  girl  in  freshest  summer-greens, 

A saint,  an  angel  — every  canvas  means 
The  same  one  meaning,  neither  more  nor  less. 

He  feeds  upon  her  face  by  day  and  night, 

And  she  with  true,  kind  eyes  looks  back  on 
him, 

Fair  as  the  moon  and  joyful  as  the  light : 

Not  wan  with  waiting,  not  with  sorrow  dim  ; 
Not  as  she  is,  but  was  when  hope  shone  bright; 
Not  as  she  is,  but  as  she  fills  his  dream. 

Christina  Rossetti. 

LXXVI. 

All  men,  completely  harmonized  and  justly 
tempered,  enjoy  color;  it  is  meant  for  the  per- 
petual comfort  and  delight  of  the  human  heart ; 
it  is  richly  bestowed  on  the  highest  works  of 
creation,  and  the  eminent  sign  and  seal  of  per- 
fection in  them;  being  associated  with  life  in 
the  human  body,  with  light  in  the  sky,  with 
purity  and  hardness  in  the  earth,  — death,  night, 
and  pollution  of  all  kinds  being  colorless. 

John  Ruskin. 


88 


Jftomentg  toitf)  U 


LX XVI I. 

FOUR  PICTURES  BY  BURNE-JONES. 

Fortune. 

Captains  and  kings  are  fastened  to  her  wheel, 

Which  turns  and  turns  : while  she,  close-veiled 
and  blind, 

Thrusts  her  lean  arm  athwart  them  : head  ’neath 
lieel, 

And  heel  on  head,  they  gasp  and  groan, 
entwined, 

A wreath  of  woe  no  mercy  may  unbind  : 

For  God  who  all  things  made,  to  Fortune  gives 

Power  to  subdue  the  mightiest  man  that  lives. 

Fame. 

Fame  stands  and  blows  a trumpet.  Chest  and 
thigh, 

Strained  with  the  blast,  like  knotted  cordage 
quiver. 

Whence  hath  he  flown  ? From  what  empyrean 
sky 

Have  those  wings  borne  him,  fiery-bright,  that 
shiver 

Like  burning  towers  reflected  in  a river  ? 

Behold  ! Behind  him  Fortune  and  her  wheel 

Lie  prone  and  shattered  ’neath  a naked  heel. 

Oblivion. 

Thou  too  art  strong  and  eagle-winged  : but,  oh  ! 

How  pale  as  death  is  yon  broad  bosom,  bent 

Over  the  restless  scythe,  that  to  and  fro 


foments  tottl)  3lrt 


89 


Sweeps,  while  the  mower,  on  his  task  intent, 
Looks  not  to  left  or  right  Mangled  and  rent 
Are  Fame’s  fair  wings;  like  Fortune’s  wheel, 
his  horn 

Was  but  a plaything  for  Oblivion’s  scorn. 

Love. 

Ah,  Love!  And  thou  hast  slain  him?  With 
what  charm, 

Scattering  rose-leaves  on  that  stubborn  scythe, 
Hast  thou  avenged  the  world  of  so  much  harm? 
Oblivion  ’neath  thy  smile  hath  ceased  to 
writhe. 

How  wert  thou  bold,  oh,  tender-limbed  and 
lithe  — 

Mere  rosy-pinioned  stripling  — to  assail 
Him  before  whom  Fame,  Fortune’s  lord,  must 
quail  ? 

John  Addington  Symonds. 
LXXVIII. 

All  great  art  is  delicate  art,  and  all  coarse 
art  is  bad  art.  Nay,  even  to  a certain  extent, 
all  bold  art  is  bad  art ; for  boldness  is  not  the 
proper  word  to  apply  to  the  courage  and  swift- 
ness of  a great  master,  based  on  knowledge,  and 
coupled  with  fear  and  love. 

John  Ruskin. 

LXXIX. 

Nothing  right  can  be  accomplished  in  art 
without  enthusiasm. 


Schumann. 


90 


foments  tottl)  3trt. 


LXXX. 

AFTER  WATTEAU. 

Embarquons-nous  pour  la  belle  Cythere. 

Th.  de  Banville. 

“ Embarquons-nous  ! ” I seem  to  go 

Against  my  will.  ’Neath  alleys  low 
I bend,  and  hear  across  the  air  — 

Across  the  stream  — faint  music  rare,  — 

Whose  “ cornemuse ,”  whose  “ chalumeau  ” f 

El  ark  ! was  not  that  a laugh  I know  ? 

Who  was  it,  hurrying,  turned  to  show 
The  galley  swinging  by  the  stair?  — 

“ Embarquons-nous  ! ” 

The  silk  sail  flaps,  fresh  breezes  blow ; 

Frail  laces  flutter,  satins  flow ; — 

You,  with  the  love-knot  in  your  hair, 
u A lions,  embarquons  jbour  Cythere  !” 

You  will  not?  . . * Press  her,  then,  Pierrot!  — 
“ Embarquons-nous  ! ” 

Austin  Dobson. 


LX XXI. 

It  is  the  treating  of  the  common-place  with 

the  feeling  of  the  sublime  that  gives  to  art  its 

true  power.  , _ „ 

r J.  F.  Millet. 

LXXXII. 

Painting  is  silent  poetry,  and  poetry  speak- 
ing painting. 

& r Simonides. 


foments  tottf)  Slrt. 


9i 


LXXXIII. 

THE  ROSE  AND  THE  STATUE.  U 

The  Rose  said  to  the  Statue : Thou  art  cold 
And  passionless,  though  beautiful  and  grand. 
I all  my  life  exhale,  while  thou  dost  stand 
Unmoved,  unmindful  of  the  sweets  I hold. 

The  Statue  answered  to  the  Rose  : Thou  poor, 
Frail  creature,  toy  and  wanton  of  a day, 

I scarce  can  stoop  to  note  thy  swift  decay ; 

Lo ! thou  art  fading  now , but  I endure. 

Thus  each  reproached  the  other : neither  thought 
What  various  means  lead  to  an  end  the  same; 
How  manifold  is  beauty,  and  what  claim 
To  the  world’s  gratitude  the  other  brought. 

O Statue ! shine  in  majesty,  replete 

With  high  suggestions  of  eternal  things. 

O Rose ! yield  up  thy  breath  and  die ; the 
wings 

Of  love  receive  it,  for  thy  breath  is  sweet. 

One  must  be  cold  and  suffer,  — ’tis  earth’s 
blight ; 

One  must  be  warm  and  suffer.  Thus  the 
poles 

Touch  in  a law  unchanging;  but  the  souls 
Of  Statue  and  of  Rose  can  ne’er  unite. 

Owen  Innsly. 

( Lucy  W.  Jennison.') 


92 


foments  toitj)  9trt. 


LXXXIV. 

THE  CRADLE  TOMB  IN  WESTMINSTER 
ABBEY.1 

A little,  rudely  sculptured  bed, 

With  shadowing  folds  of  marble  lace, 

And  quilt  of  marble,  primly  spread 
And  folded  round  a baby’s  face. 

Smoothly  the  mimic  coverlet, 

With  royal  blazonries  bedight, 

Hangs,  as  by  tender  fingers  set 

And  straightened  for  the  last  good-night. 

And  traced  upon  the  pillowing  stone 
A dent  is  seen,  as  if  to  bless 

The  quiet  sleep  some  grieving  one 
Had  leaned,  and  left  a soft  impress. 

It  seems  no  more  than  yesterday 
Since  the  sad  mother  down  the  stair 

And  down  the  long  aisle  stole  away, 

And  left  her  darling  sleeping  there. 

And  dust  upon  the  cradle  lies, 

And  those  who  prized  the  baby  so, 

And  laid  her  down  to  rest  with  sighs, 

Were  turned  to  dust  long  years  ago. 

Above  the  peaceful  pillowed  head 

Three  centuries  brood,  and  strangers  peep 

1 A copy  of  this  poem  was  made  by  Dean  Stanley,  and 
hangs  in  a frame  close  by  the  “ Cradle  tomb.” 


foments  tottl)  &rt* 


93 


And  wonder  at  the  carven  bed,— 

But  not  unwept  the  baby’s  sleep, 

For  wistful  mother-eyes  are  blurred 
With  sudden  mists,  as  lingerers  stay, 

And  the  old  dusts  are  roused  and  stirred 
By  the  warm  tear-drops  of  to-day. 

Soft,  furtive  hands  caress  the  stone, 

And  hearts,  o’erleaping  place  and  age, 

Melt  into  memories,  and  own 
A thrill  of  common  parentage. 

Men  die,  but  sorrow  never  dies ; 

The  crowding  years  divide  in  vain, 

And  the  wide  world  is  knit  with  ties 
Of  common  brotherhood  in  pain; 

Of  common  share  in  grief  and  loss, 

And  heritage  in  the  immortal  bloom 
Of  Love,  which,  flowering  round  its  cross, 
Made  beautiful  a baby’s  tomb. 

Susan  Coolidge. 

( Copyright , 1880,  by  Roberts  Brothers .) 


LXXXV. 

Angelico  is  perpetual  peace.  Not  seclusion 
from  the  world.  No  shutting  out  of  the  world 
is  needful  for  him.  ...  In  Angelico  you  have 
the  entirely  spiritual  mind,  wholly  versed  in  the 
heavenly  world,  and  incapable  of  conceiving  any 
wickedness  or  vileness  whatsoever. 

John  Ruskin. 


94 


Jftaments  tottl)  3rt. 


LXXXVI. 

IN  AN  ATELIER. 

I pray  you  do  not  turn  your  head  ; 

And  let  your  hands  lie  folded,  so. 

It  was  a dress  like  this,  wine-red, 

That  Dante  liked  so,  years  ago. 

You  don’t  know  Dante  ? Never  mind. 
He  loved  a lady  wondrous  fair  — 

His  model?  Something  of  the  kind. 

I wonder  if  she  had  your  hair  ! 

I wonder  if  she  looked  so  meek, 

And  was  not  meek  at  all  (my  dear, 

I want  that  side  light  on  your  cheek). 
He  loved  her,  it  is  very  clear, 

And  painted  her,  as  I paint  you, 

But  rather  better,  on  the  whole 
(Depress  your  chin  ; yes,  that  will  do)  : 
He  was  a painter  of  the  soul ! 

(And  painted  portraits,  too,  I think, 

In  the  Inferno — devilish  good  ! 

I ’d  make  some  certain  critics  blink 
If  I ’d  his  method  and  his  mood.) 

Her  name  was  (Fanny,  let  your  glance 
Rest  there,  by  that  majolica  tray)  — 
Was  Beatrice  ; they  met  by  chance  — 
They  met  by  chance,  the  usual  way. 

(As  you  and  I met,  months  ago. 

Do  you  remember  ? How  your  feet 
Went  crinkle-crinkle  on  the  snow 
Along  the  bleak  gas-lighted  street ! 


Jflo moita  toitl)  art. 


95 


An  instant  in  the  drug-store’s  glare 
You  stood  as  in  a golden  frame, 

And  then  I swore  it,  then  and  there, 

To  hand  your  sweetness  down  to  fame.) 

They  met,  and  loved,  and  never  wed 
(All  this  was  long  before  our  time), 

And  though  they  died,  they  are  not  dead  — 

Such  endless  youth  gives  mortal  rhyme  ! 

Still  walks  the  earth,  with  haughty  mien, 

Great  Dante,  in  his  soul’s  distress ; 

And  still  the  lovely  Florentine 
Goes  lovely  in  her  wine-red  dress. 

You  do  not  understand  at  all  ? 

He  was  a poet;  on  his  page 

He  drew  her ; and,  though  kingdoms  fall, 

This  lady  lives  from  age  to  age  : 

A poet  — that  means  painter  too, 

For  words  are  colors,  rightly  laid  ; 

And  they  outlast  our  brightest  hue, 

For  varnish  cracks  and  crimsons  fade. 

The  poets  — they  are  lucky  ones  ! 

When  we  are  thrust  upon  the  shelves, 

Our  works  turn  into  skeletons 
Almost  as  quickly  as  ourselves  ; 

For  our  poor  canvas  peels  at  length, 

At  length  is  prized  — when  all  is  bare  : 

“ What  grace  ! ” the  critics  cry,  “ what 
strength ! ” 

When  neither  strength  nor  grace  is  there. 


96 


fUmcntz  toitl) 


Ah,  Fanny,  I am  sick  at  heart, 

It  is  so  little  one  can  do  ; 

We  talk  our  jargon  — live  for  Art ! 

I ’d  much  prefer  to  live  for  you. 

How  dull  and  lifeless, colors  are  ! 

You  smile,  and  all  my  picture  lies : 

I wish  that  I could  crush  a star, 

To  make  a pigment  for  your  eyes. 

Yes,  child,  I know  I ’m  out  of  tune; 

The  light  is  bad  ; the  sky  is  gray : 

I paint  no  more  this  afternoon, 

So  lay  your  royal  gear  away. 

Besides,  you’re  moody  — chin  on  hand  — 

I know  not  what  — not  in  the  vein  — 

Not  like  Anne  Bullen,  sweet  and  bland  : 

You  sit  there  smiling  in  disdain. 

Not  like  Bluff  Harry’s  radiant  Queen, 
Unconscious  of  the  coming  woe, 

But  rather  as  she  might  have  been, 

Preparing  for  the  headsman’s  blow. 

I see  ! I ’ve  put  you  in  a miff  — 

Sitting  bolt-upright,  wrist  on  wrist. 

How  should  you  look?  Why,  dear,  as  if  — 
Somehow  — as  if  you ’d  just  been  kissed  ! 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich. 


LX XXVII. 

Genius  counts  all  its  miracles  poor  and  short. 

Emerson. 


foments  tottl)  Sir U 


97 


L XXXVI  I I. 

There  is  nothing  that  a real  artist  cares  less 
for  than  what  you  call  success.  It  is  generally 
a misfortune  if  he  gets  it  early,  and  if  it  comes 
to  him  late  he  is  indifferent  to  it.  . . . Neglect 
and  indifference  mean  freedom  from  tempta- 
tion, long  quiet  days  in  one’s  studio,  hard  work, 
sound  sleep,  and  healthy  growth.  It  was  a 
great  piece  of  luck  for  Corot  that  the  world  was 
so  long  in  finding  him  ; that  it  left  him  so  many 
years  in  peace  to  do  his  work  and  let  his  soul 
out.  His  contempt  for  popularity  was  well  ex- 
pressed in  the  phrase,  “ Men  are  like  flies  ; if 
one  alights  on  a dish,  others  will  follow.” 

H.  W.  Mabie. 


l xx xix. 

Here  Reynolds  is  laid,  and,  to  tell  you  my  mind, 
He  has  not  left  a wiser  or  better  behind. 

His  pencil  was  striking,  resistless,  and  grand ; 
His  manners  were  gentle,  complying,  and  bland: 
Still  born  to  improve  us  in  every  part, 

His  pencil  our  faces,  his  manners  our  heart. 

To  coxcombs  averse,  yet  most  civilly  steering, 
When  they  judg’d  without  skill,  he  was  still 
hard  of  hearing: 

When  they  talked  of  their  Raphaels,  Correggios, 
and  stuff, 

He  shifted  his  trumpet,  and  only  took  snuff.1 

Goldsmith. 

1 Sir  Joshua  was  so  remarkably  deaf  as  to  be  under  the 
necessity  of  using  an  ear-trumpet  in  company. 


7 


98 


foments  tout!) 


xc. 

VITTORIA. 

Wise  was  the  word  the  wise  man  spake  who 
said : 

“ Angelo  was  the  only  man  to  whom  God  gave 
Four  souls  99 : — the  soul  of  sculpture  and  of  song, 
Of  architecture  and  of  art ; these  all. 

For  so  God  loved  him  as  if  he  were 
His  only  child,  and  grouped  about  his  brows 
Ideals  of  himself,  — not  angels  mild 
As  those  that  flit  and  beckon  other  lives, 

But  cherubim  and  seraphim ; tall,  strong, 
Unsleeping,  terrible  ; with  wings  across 
Their  mighty  feet,  and  eyes  — if  we  would  look 
Upon  their  blazing  eyes,  these  two  are  hid  — 
Some  angels  are  all  wings  ! Oh,  shine  and  fly  l 
Were  ye  not  angels,  ye  would  strike  us  blind. 

And  yet  they  did  not,  could  not  dazzle  her  — 
That  one  sweet,  silent  woman  unto  whom 
He  bent  as  pliant  as  the  marble  turned 
To  life  immortal  in  his  own  great  hand. 
Steadfast  Vittoria  looked  on  Angelo. 

She  lifted  lonely  eyes.  The  years  stepped  slow. 
Fourfold  the  reverence  which  he  gave  to  her. 
Fourfold  the  awful  tenderness,  the  trust, 

The  loyalty,  the  loss.  And  oh,  fourfold 
The  comfort,  beyond  all  power  of  comforting, 
Whereby  a lesser  man  may  heal  the  hurt 
Of  widowhood. 

Pescara  had  one  soul  — 

A little  one ; and  it  was  stained.  And  he — 


foments  to  it!)  &rt. 


99 


It  too,  perhaps  (God  knows  !)  — was  dead. 

The  dead  are  God’s. 

Vittoria  had  one  heart. 
The  woman  gave  it,  and  the  woman  gives 
Once.  Angelo  was  too  late.  And  one  who 
dared 

To  shed  a tear  for  him  has  dropped  it  here. 

Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps  Ward. 

XCI. 

THE  LAST  SUPPER. 

(By  Leonardo  da  Vinci  in  the  Refectory  of  the  Convent 
of  Maria  della  Grazia,  Milan.) 

Though  searching  damps  and  many  an  envious 
flaw 

Have  marred  this  work ; the  calm,  ethereal 
grace, 

The  love  deep-seated  in  the  Saviour’s  face, 

The  mercy,  goodness,  have  not  failed  to  awe 
The  Elements  ; as  they  do  melt  and  thaw 
The  heart  of  the  beholder,  — and  erase 
(At  least  for  one  rapt  moment)  every  trace 
Of  disobedience  to  the  primal  law. 

The  annunciation  of  the  dreadful  truth 
Made  to  the  Twelve,  survives  : lip,  forehead, 
cheek, 

And  hand  reposing  on  the  board  in  ruth 
Of  what  it  utters,  while  the  unguilty  seek 
Unquestionable  meanings,  still  bespeak 
A labor  worthy  of  eternal  youth  ! 

William  Wordsworth. 


100 


^laments  tottl)  %LxU 


XCII. 

MILLET  AND  ZOLA. 

(“  L’Ang61us  ” and  “ La  Terre.”) 

Against  the  sunset  glow  they  stand, 

Two  humblest  toilers  of  the  land, 

Rugged  of  speech  and  rough  of  hand, 
Bowed  down  by  tillage  ; 

No  grace  of  garb  or  circumstance 
Invests  them  with  a high  romance, 

Ten  thousand  such  through  fruitful  France, 
In  field  and  village. 

The  day’s  slow  path  from  dawn  to  west 
Has  left  them,  soil-bestained,  distrest, 

No  thought  beyond  the  nightly  rest,  — 
New  toil  to-morrow; 

Till  solemnly  the  “ Ave  ” bell 
Rings  out  the  sun’s  departing  knell, 

Borne  by  the  breezes’  rhythmic  swell 
O’er  swathe  and  furrow. 

O lowly  pair  ! you  dream  it  not, 

Yet  on  your  hard,  unlovely  lot 
That  evening  gleam  of  light  has  shot 
A glorious  presage  ; 

For  prophets  oft  have  yearned  and  kings, 
Have  yearned  in  vain  to  know  the  things 
Which  to  your  simple  spirits  brings 
That  curfew  message. 


foments  tottl) 


ioi 


Turn  to  the  written  page  and  read 
In  other  strain  the  peasant’s  creed, 

With  satyr  love  and  vampire  greed 

How  hearts  are  tainted  ; 

Read  to  the  end  unmoved  who  can, 

Read  how  the  primal  curse  on  man 
May  shape  a fouler  Caliban 

Than  poet  painted ! 

And  this  is  Nature  ! Be  it  so : 

It  needs  a master’s  hand  to  show 
How  through  the  man  the  brute  may  grow 
By  Hell’s  own  leaven ; 

We  blame  you  not : enough  for  us 
Those  two  lone  figures  bending  thus, 

For  whom  that  far-off  Angelas 

Speaks  Hope  and  Heaven. 
Robert,  Lord  Houghton. 

XCIII. 

All  Arts  are  one,  howe’er  distributed  they 
stand; 

Verse,  tone,  shape,  color,  form,  are  fingers  on 
one  hand. 

W.  W.  Story. 


XCIV. 

Painting  does  not  proceed  so  much  by  intelli- 
gence as  by  sight  and  feeling  and  invention. 

Hamerton. 


102 


^amenta  tott|)  $LxU 


xcv. 

FRA  ANGELICO. 

No,  Buonarroti,  thou  shalt  not  subdue 
My  mind  with  thy  Thor-hammer ! All  that  play 
Of  ponderous  science  with  Titanic  thew 
And  spastic  tendon  — marvellous,  ’tis  true  — 
Says  nothing  to  my  soul.  Thy  44  terrible  way  ” 
Has  led  enow  of  worshipers  astray ; 

I will  not  walk  therein ! Nor  yet  shalt  thou, 
Majestic  Raphael  — though  before  thee  bow 
The  nations,  with  their  tribute  of  renown  — 
Lead  my  heart  captive.  Great  thou  art,  I own  — 
Great,  but  a Pagan  still.  But  here  — breathe 
low, 

The  place  is  hallowed  — here,  Angelico  ! 

Heart,  mind,  and  soul,  with  reverent  love  confess 
The  Christian  Painter,  sent  to  purify  and  bless. 

Sir  Joseph  Noel  Paton. 

XCVI. 

ON  DURER’S  MELENCOLIA. 

What  holds  her  fixed  far  eyes  nor  lets  them 
range  ? 

Not  the  strange  sea,  strange  earth,  or  heav’n 
more  strange ; 

But  her  own  phantom  dwarfing  these  great 
three, 

More  strange  than  all,  more  old  than  heav’n, 
earth,  sea. 


William  Watson. 


Jftomente  tottl)  &rt. 


103 


XCVII. 

THE  HOLY  FAMILY,  BY  MICHELANGELO. 

(In  the  National  Gallery.*) 

Turn  not  the  prophet’s  page,  O Son!  He 
knew 

All  that  thou  hast  to  suffer,  and  hath  writ. 

Not  yet  thine  hour  of  knowledge.  Infinite 
The  sorrows  that  thy  manhood’s  lot  must  rue 
And  dire  acquaintance  of  thy  grief.  That  clue 
The  spirits  of  thy  mournful  ministerings 
Seek  through  yon  scroll  in  silence.  For 
these  things 

The  angels  have  desired  to  look  into. 

Still  before  Eden  waves  the  fiery  sword,  — 

Her  Tree  of  Life  unransomed:  whose  sad 
Tree 

Of  Knowledge  yet  to  growth  of  Calvary 
Must  yield  its  Tempter,  — Hell  the  earliest 
dead 

Of  Earth  resign,  — and  yet,  O Son  and  Lord, 
The  seed  o’  the  woman  bruise  the  serpent’s 
head. 

Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti. 
XCVIII. 

Work  for  immortality  if  you  will : then  wait 

for  lt'  J.  G.  Holland. 

x in  this  picture  the  Virgin  Mother  is  seen  withholding  from 
the  Child  Saviour  the  prophetic  writings  in  which  his  sufferings 
are  foretold.  Angelic  figures  beside  them  examine  a scroll. 


104 


Jlnmenta  toitf)  3trt. 


XCIX. 

LEPAGE’S  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

Once,  it  may  be,  the  soft  gray  skies  were  dear, 
The  clouds  above  in  crowds,  like  sheep  below, 
The  bending  of  each  kindly  wrinkled  tree; 

Or  blossoms  at  the  birth-time  of  the  year. 

Or  lambs  unweaned,  or  water  in  still  flow, 

In  whose  brown  glass  a girl  her  face  might 
see. 

Such  days  are  gone,  and  strange  things  come 
instead ; 

For  she  has  looked  on  other  faces  white, 

Pale  bloom  of  fear,  before  war’s  whirlwind 
blown  ; 

Has  stooped,  ah,  Heaven!  in  some  low  shelter- 
ing shed 

To  tend  dark  wounds,  the  leaping  arrow’s  bite, 
While  the  cold  death  that  hovered  seemed 
her  own. 

And  in  her  hurt  heart,  o’er  some  grizzled  head, 
The  mother  that  shall  never  be  has  yearned ; 
And  love’s  fine  voice,  she  else  shall  never 
hear, 

Came  to  her  as  the  call  of  saints  long  dead ; 
And  straightway  all  the  passion  in  her  burned, 
One  altar-flame  that  hourly  waxes  clear. 

Hence  goes  she  ever  in  a glimmering  dream, 
And  very  oft  will  sudden  stand  at  gaze, 

With  blue,  dim  eyes  that  still  not  'seem  to 
see : 


foments  tottl)  9lrt. 


ios 


For  now  the  well-known  ways  with  visions  teem ; 
Unfelt  is  toil,  and  summer  one  green  daze, 
Till  that  the  king  be  crowned,  and  France 


be  free ! 


Helen  Gray  Cone. 


C. 


AFTER  ALBERT  CUYP. 

A sunset  silence  holds  the  patient  land ; 
Against  the  sun  the  stolid  cattle  stand ; 
Framed  hazy,  in  the  gold  that  slips 
Between  the  sails  of  lazy  ships, 

And  floods  with  level,  yellow  light 
The  broad,  green  meadow  grasses  bright. 

S.  Weir  Mitchell. 

C7. 

...  If  it  take 

^Eons  to  form  a diamond,  grain  on  grain, 

JEons  to  crystallize  its  fire  and  dew  — 

By  what  slow  processes  must  Nature  make 
Her  Shakespeares  and  her  Raffaels  ? Great 
the  gain 

If  she  spoil  thousands  making  one  or  two. 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich. 
( Rarity  of  Genius .) 

CII. 

True  painting  can  only  be  learned  in  one 
school,  and  that  is  kept  by  Nature. 


Hogarth. 


io  6 


Momenta  tott!)  &rt. 


CI II. 

LINES  TO  A STUPID  PICTURE. 

Five  geese,  — a landscape  damp  and  wild,  — 
A stunted,  not  too  pretty,  child, 

Beneath  a battered  gingham ; 

Such  things,  to  say  the  least,  require 
A Muse  of  more-than-average  Fire 
To  adequately  sing  ’em. 


And  yet  — Why  should  they  ? Souls  of  mark 
Have  sprung  from  such  ; — e’en  Joan  of  Arc 
Had  scarce  a grander  duty  ; 

Not  always  (’t  is  a maxim  trite) 

From  righteous  causes  comes  the  right, — 
From  beautiful  the  beauty. 

Who  shall  decide  where  seed  is  sown  ? 
Maybe  some  priceless  germ  was  blown 
To  this  unwholesome  marish  ; 

(And  what  must  grow  will  still  increase 
Though  cackled  round  by  half  the  geese 
And  ganders  in  the  parish.) 

Maybe  this  homely  face  may  hide 
A Stael  before  whose  mannish  pride 
Our  frailer  sex  may  tremble ; 

Perchance  this  audience  anserine 
May  hiss  (O  fluttering  Muse  of  mine !)  — 
May  hiss  — a future  Kemble  ! 


foments  tottl)  art. 


107 


Or  say  the  gingham  shadows  o’er 
An  undeveloped  Hannah  More  ! — 

A latent  Mrs.  Trimmer ! 

Who  shall  affirm  it?  — who  deny?  — 

Since  of  the  truth  nor  you  nor  I 
Discern  the  faintest  glimmer  ? 

So  then  — Caps  off,  my  Masters  all : 
Reserve  your  final  words,  — recall 
Your  all-too-hasty  strictures  ; 

Caps  off,  I say,  for  Wisdom  sees 
Potential  possibilities 

In  most  unhopeful  pictures. 

Austin  Dobson. 

CIV. 

If  a picture  is  daubed  with  many  glaring 
colors,  the  vulgar  eye  admires  it;  whereas  he 
judges  very  contemptuously  of  some  admirable 
design  sketched  out  only  with  a black  pencil, 
though  by  the  hand  of  Raphael. 

Isaac  Watts. 

CV. 

As  when  a painter,  poring  on  a face, 

Divinely  through  all  hindrance  finds  the  man 
Behind  it,  and  so  paints  him  that  his  face, 

The  shape  and  colour  of  a mind  and  life, 

Lives  for  his  children,  ever  at  its  best 
And  fullest. 


Tennyson. 


io8  JJtomenta  tott!)  %lxX* 


CVI. 

THE  PARTHENON  BY  MOONLIGHT. 

This  is  an  island  of  the  golden  Past, 

Uplifted  in  the  tranquil  sea  of  night. 

This  is  true  Athens  ! How  the  heart  beats  fast 
When  climbs  the  pilgrim  to  this  gleaming 
height : 

The  crown  and  glory  of  consummate  form  ; 

The  jewel  of  all  the  world,  most  nobly  set ; 
High  Beauty’s  shrine,  outwearing  every  storm  ; 
Shattered,  but  not  undone ; thrice  lovely  yet. 

Ah,  Heaven,  what  tragic  waste ! Is  Time  so 
lavish 

Of  dear  perfection,  thus  to  see  it  spilled  ? 
’Twas  worth  an  empire  ; now  behold  the  ravish 
That  laid  it  low.  The  soaring  plain  is  filled 
With  the  wide-scattered  letters  of  one  word 
Of  loveliness  that  nevermore  was  spoken  ; 
Nor  ever  shall  its  like  again  be  heard : 

Not  dead  is  Art  — but  that  high  charm  is 
broken. 

Now  moonlight  builds  with  swift  and  mystic  art 
And  makes  the  ruin  whole  — and  yet  not 
whole, 

But  exquisite,  though  crushed  and  torn  apart. 

Back  to  the  temple  steals  its  living  soul : 

In  the  star-silent  night  it  comes  all  pale  — 

A spirit  breathing  beauty  and  delight, 

And  yet  how  stricken  ! Hark  ! I hear  it  wail, 
Self-sorrowful,  while  every  wound  breathes 
white. 


foments  tottl)  &rt. 


109 


And  though  more  sad  than  is  the  nightingale 
That  mourns  in  Lycabettus’  fragrant  pine,  . 
That  soul  to  mine  brings  solace ; nor  shall  fail 
To  heal  the  heart  of  man  while  still  doth 
shine 

Yon  planet,  doubly  bright  in  this  deep  blue ; 

Yon  moon  that  brims  with  fire  these  violet 
hiUs : 

For  Beauty  is  of  God,  and  God  is  true, 

And  with  His  strength  the  soul  of  mortal  fills. 

Richard  Watson  Gilder. 

CVII. 

My  friend,  all  speech  and  humor  is  short- 
lived, foolish,  untrue.  Genuine  work  alone, 
what  thou  workest  faithfully,  that  is  eternal. 

Take  courage,  then  — raise  the  arm  — strike 
home  and  that  right  lustily  — the  citadel  of 
Hope  must  yield  to  noble  desire,  thus  seconded 
by  noble  efforts. 

John  Ruskin. 

CVIII. 

Art  rests  on  a kind  of  religious  sense,  on  a 
deep,  steadfast  earnestness ; and  on  this  account 
it  unites  so  readily  with  religion. 

Goethe. 

CIX. 

Painting  is  the  intermediate  between  af 
thought  and  a thing. 


Coleridge. 


no 


^Staments  tottf) 


ex. 

RUSKIN. 

Painter  in  words,  on  whose  resplendent  page, 
Caught  from  the  palette  of  the  seven-hued 
bow, 

The  colors  of  our  English  Turner  glow,  — 
Silver  of  silent  stars,  the  storm’s  red  rage, 

Thq  spray  of  mountain  streams,  rocks  gray  with 
age, 

Gold  of  Athena,  white  of  Alpine  snow, 

Cool  green  of  forests,  blue  of  lakes  below, 
And  sunset-crimsoned  skies, — O seer  and 
sage, 

Crowned  with  wild  olive,  fine  of  sense  and  sight, 
In  thy  prophetic  voice,  through  work,  trade, 
strife, 

The  stones  cry  out:  “ By  truth  the  nations 
live, 

And  by  injustice  die.  Be  thy  weights  right, 
Thy  measures  true.  These  be  the  lamps  that 
give 

The  way  of  beauty  and  the  path  of  life.” 

R.  R.  Bowker. 

CXI. 

ANY  SCULPTOR  TO  ANY  MODEL. 

I know  not  anything  more  fair  than  thou.  — 

God  give  me  strength  to  feel  thee,  power  to  speak 

Through  this  dumb  clay  and  marble  all  the 
thoughts 

That  rise  within  my  spirit  while  I gaze ! — 


JHomente  tottf)  &rt 


hi 


What  saith  the  Scripture  ? In  His  image  God 
Shaped  man,  and  breathed  into  his  nostrils 
breath 

Of  life.  — Here  then,  as  nowhere  else,  shines 
God ; 

The  Thought  made  flesh,  the  world’s  soul 
breathing  soft 

And  strong,  not  merely  through  those  lips  and 
eyes, 

But  in  each  flawless  limb,  each  mighty  curve, 
Each  sinew  moulded  on  the  moving  form. 

Until  thou  earnest,  the  world  and  all  it  held 
Was  even  as  Memnon  ere  he  felt  the  sun; 

Then  Man  stepped  forth,  the  Spirit  sprang  to 
light, 

Earth  found  her  voice,  and  heaven  with  music 
thrilled. 

Nought  is  there  therefore  in  thee  but  is  pure, 
Perfect,  compact  of  correspondences, 

Whereby  the  poems  of  the  soul  are  read 
In  symbols  fashioned  from  the  plastic  form. 
Yea,  it  is  mine  by  Art,  the  hierophant 
Of  myriads  when  these  moving  lips  are  dumb, 
To  find  thy  meaning,  and  to  speak  it  forth 
Through  marble  and  through  bronze  that  shall 
not  fade ; 

Making  thy  moulded  shape  — not  face  alone, 
But  hands,  breast,  lifted  arms,  firm  limbs,  that 
tell 

Of  service,  strength,  will,  conquest,  energy  — 
One  message  for  the  minds  of  those  that  know. 

John  Addington  Symonds. 


foments  toitf)  &rt 


1 12 


CXII. 

MADONNA  AND  CHILD. 

Little  Son,  little  Son,  climb  up  to  my  breast, 
And  lie  amid  its  warmth  at  rest. 

But  shut  those  stranger  eyes  from  me, 

My  Rose,  my  Sorrow,  my  Peace  divine, 

And  call  me  “ Mother,”  and  not  “ Mary,” 
Although  thou  art  not  mine. 

0 weep  not  if  I hold  thee  tight, 

For  ’mid  unheeding  kine  at  night 

1 dream  thee  weak  and  needing  me, 

Forget  thy  royalty,  croon  and  coo, 

Pretend  thee  little,  and  handle  thee 
As  other  mothers  do. 


Thine  eyes  are  closed,  but  He  who  keeps 
Watch  over  Israel  never  sleeps ! 

And  when  I sleepless  lie  by  thee 
Thy  little  hands  mine  eyes  do  blind 
And  move  across  them  soothingly, 

And  feel  so  large  and  kind. 


It  is  I would  climb  to  thy  little  breast. 

O hold  me  there  and  let  me  rest ! 

It  is  I am  weak  and  weary  and  small, 
And  thy  soft  arms  can  carry  me. 

So  put  them  under  me,  God,  my  All, 
And  let  me  quiet  be. 


Alice  Archer  James. 


|0omcnts  tottlE)  Set. 


ii3 


CXIII. 

ON  A PORTRAIT  OF  DANTE,  BY  GIOTTO. 

Can  this  be  thou  who,  lean  and  pale, 

With  such  immitigable  eye 
Didst  look  upon  those  writhing  souls  in  bale, 
And  note  each  vengeance,  and  pass  by 
Unmoved,  save  when  thy  heart  by  chance 
Cast  backward  one  forbidden  glance, 

And  saw  Francesca,  with  child’s  glee, 

Subdue  and  mount  thy  wild-horse  knee 
And  with  proud  hands  control  its  fiery  prance  ? 

With  half-drooped  lids,  and  smooth,  round  brow, 
And  eye  remote,  that  inly  sees 
Fair  Beatrice’s  spirit  wandering  now 
In  some  sea-lulled  Hesperides, 

Thou  movest  through  the  jarring  street, 
Secluded  from  the  noise  of  feet 
By  her  gift-blossom  in  thy  hand, 

Thy  branch  of  palm  from  Holy  Land;  — 

No  trace  is  here  of  ruin’s  fiery  sleet. 

Yet  there  is  something  round  thy  lips 
That  prophesies  the  coming  doom, 

The  soft,  gray  herald-shadow  ere  the  eclipse 
Notches  the  perfect  disk  with  gloom; 

A something  that  would  banish  thee, 

And  thine  untamed  pursuer  be, 

From  men  and  their  unworthy  fates, 

Though  Florence  had  not  shut  her  gates, 

And  Grief  had  loosed  her  clutch  and  let  thee 
free. 


8 


foments  tettl)  3trt. 


114 


Ah ! he  who  follows  fearlessly 
The  beckonings  of  a poet-heart 
Shall  wander,  and  without  the  world’s  decree, 

A banished  man  in  field  and  mart ; 

Harder  than  Florence’  walls  the  bar 
Which  with  deaf  sternness  holds  him  far 
From  home  and  friends,  till  death’s  release, 
And  makes  his  only  prayer  for  peace, 

Like  thine,  scarred  veteran  of  a lifelong  war ! 

James  Russell  Lowell. 

CXIV. 

ANTINOUS  OF  THE  VATICAN. 

Antinous,  upon  thy  brow  of  snow 
It  seems  as  if  the  gathered  sunshine  lay 
Of  ages,  and  about  thy  sweet  lips  play 
The  same  glad  smiles  that  wreathed  them  long 
ago. 

Thy  curls’  luxuriant  clusters  seem  to  glow 
With  the  old  life ; we  almost  hear  thee  say 
The  word  thou  usedst  to  murmur  in  that  day 
When  love’s  kiss  burned  on  thy  mouth’s  per- 
fect bow. 

O sweetest  youth  that  ever  human  eyes 
Have  gazed  upon,  thou  mak’st  the  heart  grow 
warm 

Of  him  who  lifts  his  glance  to  thee  above. 

And  thine,  besides  the  charm  of  face  and  form, 
His  higher  fame  of  whom  the  poet  cries : 

“ How  noble  is  his  end  who  dies  for  love  ! ” 1 

Owen  Innsly.  ( Lucy  W.  Jennison.) 

1 Che  bel  fin  fa  chi  ben  amando  more  ! 

Petrarch. 


foments  tottf)  &rt 


115 


cxv. 

IN  THE  COURT  OF  THE  LIONS  : BY  MOON- 
LIGHT. 

These  lions  were  sculptured  centuries  ago 
In  that  fair  court  a Sultan  made  for  her 
Who  was  his  heart’s  delight.  Her  worshiper 

Was  he  whom  all  men  worshiped;  proving  so 

His  love  and  homage  that  the  ages  know 
How  fair  she  was,  and  how  at  softest  stir 
Of  her  soft  robes  — as  these  proud  courts 
aver  — 

His  kingly  heart  with  kingly  love  did  glow ; 

Till  he  bade  crafty  workmen  come  and  make 

A palace,  lovely  for  her  lovely  sake, 

Thick-set  with  gems,  with  many  a sculptured 
space 

Wrought  cunningly  out  of  the  creamy  stone 
To  frame  the  dusky  beauty  of  her  face,  — 

Still  on  those  courts  the  white  moon  shines,  but 
they  are  gone ! 

Louise  Chandler  Moulton. 

( Copyright , 1889,  by  Roberts  Brothers .) 

CXVI. 

VENUS  OF  MILO. 

Grace,  majesty,  and  the  calm  bliss  of  life  : 

No  conscious  war  ’twixt  human  will  and  duty ; 

Here  breathes,  forever  free  from  pain  and  strife, 
The  old,  untroubled  pagan  world  of  beauty. 

Richard  Watson  Gilder. 


n6 


foments  tottf)  %LxU 


CXVII. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Michael  Angelo  ( standing  before  a model 
of  St.  Peter's .) 

Better  than  thou  I cannot,  Brunelleschi, 

And  less  than  thou  I will  not ! If  the  thought 
Could,  like  a windlass,  lift  the  ponderous  stones 
And  swing  them  to  their  places  ; if  a breath 
Could  blow  this  rounded  dome  into  the  air, 

As  if  it  were  a bubble,  and  these  statues 
Spring  at  a signal  to  their  sacred  stations, 

As  sentinels  mount  guard  upon  a wall, 

Then  were  my  task  completed.  Now,  alas  ! 
Naught  am  I but  a Saint  Sebaldus,  holding 
Upon  his  hand  the  model  of  a church, 

As  German  artists  paint  him ; and  what  years, 
What  weary  years,  must  drag  themselves  along, 
Ere  this  be  turned  to  stone  ! What  hindrances 
Must  block  the  way ; what  idle  interferences 
Of  Cardinals  and  Canons  of  St.  Peter’s, 

Who  nothing  know  of  art  beyond  the  color 
Of  cloaks  and  stockings,  nor  of  any  building 
Save  that  of  their  own  fortunes!  And  what 
then  ? 

I have  no  friends  and  want  none.  My  own 
thoughts 

Are  now  my  sole  companions, — thoughts  of 
her, 

That  like  a benediction  from  the  skies 


foments  toitj)  &vt.  11 7 


Come  to  me  in  my  solitude  and  soothe  me. 

. . . My  work  is  here, 

And  only  here,  the  building  of  St.  Peter’s. 

Henry  W.  Longfellow. 


C XVI II. 

HOUSEHOLD  ART. 

“ Mine  be  a cot,”  for  the  hours  of  play, 

Of  the  kind  that  is  built  by  Miss  Greenaway; 
Where  the  walls  are  low,  and  the  roofs  are  red, 
And  the  birds  are  gay  in  the  blue  o’erhead ; 

And  the  dear  little  figures,  in  frocks  and  frills, 
Go  roaming  about  at  their  own  sweet  wills, 

And  play  with  the  pups,  and  reprove  the  calves, 
And  do  naught  in  the  world  (but  Work)  by  halves, 
From  “ Hunt  the  Slipper  ” and  “ Riddle-me-ree  ” 
To  watching  the  cat  in  the  apple-tree. 

O Art  of  the  Household  ! Men  may  prate 
Of  their  ways  “ intense  ” and  Italianate,  — 
They  may  soar  on  their  wings  of  sense,  and 
float 

To  the  au  dela  and  the  dim  remote,  — 

Till  the  last  sun  sink  in  the  last-lit  West, 

’Tis  the  Art  at  the  Door  that  will  please  the 
best ; 

To  the  end  of  Time ’t  will  be  still  the  same, 

For  the  Earth  first  laughed  when  the  children 
came ! 


Austin  Dobson. 


1 1 8 


JHoraente  tottj)  Strt. 


CXIX. 

UNDER  RAPHAEL’S  MAGDALENE. 

Be  merciful.  God’s  gracious  hand 

Has  hedged  you  round.  From  scarlet  brand 

Of  sin  as  sore  His  care  has  kept, 

Or  like  her  you,  too,  might  have  wept ; 

How  dare  you  judge?  But  for  the  chance 
Of  birth,  blood,  friends,  and  circumstance, 
Clay  of  the  self-same  mould  you  are, 

And  tempted,  might  have  fallen  as  far. 

Bow,  haughty  head  ! Your  conscious  worth 
Pales  in  the  sight  of  heaven  and  earth, 

Beside  repentant  grief  and  shame. 

Not  ours  to  prate  of  praise  or  blame, 

When  she  who  seems  most  lost  may  stand 
Nearer  some  day  to  God’s  right  hand 
Than  you  or  I.  We  do  not  know. 

Be  merciful.  Her  Christ  was  so. 

C.  Morton  Sciple. 

cxx. 

With  hue  like  that  when  some  great  painter 
dips 

His  pencil  in  the  gloom  of  earthquake  and 
eclipse. 

Shelley. 

CXXI. 

In  morals,  as  in  art,  saying  is  nothing,  doing 
is  all. 


Renan. 


foments  tottl)  &rt* 


119 


CXXII. 

AN  ENGRAVING,  AFTER  MURILLO. 

A daughter  of  the  centuries  of  art 
Offered  for  sale  in  a shop  window  lay. 

When  southern  nature  lent  each  precious  part 
To  form  that  woman,  in  his  genial  way 
The  Spanish  painter  made  his  glowing  heart 
Look  warmly  from  her  eyes,  — a summer’s  day 
Hide  all  its  fragrant  secrets  in  her  breast : 

Made  lovely  lovelier,  with  love  expressed. 

Long,  long  ago  she  lived  ; long,  long  ago 

That  happy  painter  wrought  who  saw  her 
face  — 

Painting,  with  blood  and  milk,  the  tropic  glow 
That  lit  her  cheeks  for  his  dearest  solace. 

But  yesterday  with  patient  hand  and  slow, 
Another  artist  did  her  beauties  trace  ; 

With  soft  gray  graven  lines,  and  taste  refined, 
Chilled  native  fervor  with  the  touch  of  mind. 

Still  modestly  the  picture  seemed  to  live, 

And  in  itself  contain  the  work  of  all 
Who  ever  lived  for  art : yea,  and  to  give 
Some  trait  of  each,  and  tenderly  recall 
Thought-mellowing  hours,  hours  contemplative. 

...  In  a shop  window,  an  engraving  small, 
Faint  image  from  Murillo’s  ardent  heart, 

Gray  daughter  of  the  centuries  of  art. 

Marrion  Wilcox. 


120 


Momenta  tottl)  %LxU 


CXXIII. 

A VERY  WOFUL  BALLADE  OF  THE  ART 
CRITIC. 

(To  E.  A.  Abbey.) 

A Spirit  came  to  my  sad  bed, 

And  weary  sad  that  night  was  I, 

Who ’d  tottered,  since  the  dawn  was  red, 
Through  miles  of  Grosvenor  Gallery, 

Yea,  leagues  of  long  Academy 
Awaited  me  when  morn  grew  white, 
’Twas  then  the  Spirit  whispered  nigh, 

“ Take  up  the  pen,  my  friend,  and  write  ! 

“ Of  many  a portrait  gray  as  lead, 

Of  many  a mustard-colored  sky, 

Say  much,  where  little  should  be  said, 

Lay  on  thy  censure  dexterously, 

With  microscopic  glances  pry 
At  textures,  Tadema’s  delight, 

Praise  foreign  swells  they  always  sky, 
Take  up  the  pen,  my  friend,  and  write ! ” 

I answered,  “ ’T  is  for  daily  bread, 

A sorry  crust,  I ween,  and  dry, 

That  still,  with  aching  feet  and  head, 

I push  this  lawful  industry, 

’Mid  pictures  hung  or  low,  or  high, 

But,  touching  that  which  I indite, 

Do  artists  hold  me  lovingly  ? 

Take  up  the  pen,  my  friend,  and  write  ! v 


^omenta  toitl)  %LvU 


121 


The  Spirit  writeth  in  form  of  Envoy. 

“ They  fain  would  black  thy  dexter  eye, 
They  hate  thee  with  a bitter  spite ; 

But  scribble  since  thou  must,  or  die, 

Take  up  the  pen,  my  friend,  and  write ! ” 

Andrew  Lang. 


CXXIV. 

FEMME  INCONNUE  OF  THE  LOUVRE. 

She  lived  in  Florence  centuries  ago, 

That  lady  smiling  there. 

What  was  her  name  or  rank  I do  not  know,  — 

I know  that  she  was  fair. 

For  some  great  man  — his  name,  like  hers,  forgot 
And  faded  from  men’s  sight  — 

Loved  her  — he  must  have  loved  her  — and  has 
wrought 

This  bust  for  our  delight. 

Whether  he  gained  her  love  or  had  her  scorn, 
Full  happy  was  his  fate. 

He  saw  her,  heard  her  speak ; he  was  not  born 
Four  hundred  years  too  late! 

The  palace  throngs  in  every  room  but  this  ; 
Here  I am  left  alone. 

Love  — there  is  none  to  see  — I press  a kiss 
Upon  thy  lips  of  stone. 


Kenyon  Cox. 


122 


J5toments  tottl)  &rt 


cxxv. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Ah,  to  build,  to  build ! 

That  is  the  noblest  art  of  all  the  arts. 

Painting  and  sculpture  are  but  images, 

Are  merely  shadows  cast  by  outward  things 
On  stone  or  canvas,  having  in  themselves 
No  separate  existence.  Architecture, 

Existing  in  itself,  and  not  in  seeming 

A something  it  is  not,  surpasses  them 

As  substance  shadow.  Long,  long  years  ago, 

Standing  one  morning  near  the  Baths  of  Titus, 

I saw  the  statue  of  Laocoon 

Rise  from  its  grave  of  centuries,  like  a ghost 

Writhing  in  pain  ; and  as  it  tore  away 

The  knotted  serpents  from  its  limbs,  I heard, 

Or  seemed  to  hear,  the  cry  of  agony 

From  its  white,  parted  lips.  And  still  I marvel 

At  the  three  Rhodian  artists,  by  whose  hands 

This  miracle  was  wrought.  Yet  he  beholds 

Far  nobler  works  who  looks  upon  the  ruins 

Of  temples  in  the  Forum  here  in  Rome. 

If  God  should  give  me  power  in  my  old  age 
To  build  for  Him  a temple  half  as  grand 
As  those  were  in  their  glory,  I should  count 
My  age  more  excellent  than  youth  itself, 

And  all  that  I have  hitherto  accomplished 
As  only  vanity. 

Henry  W.  Longfellow. 


foments  toitl)  &rt 


123 


CXXVI. 

NEAR  AMSTERDAM 
(After  Albert  Cuyp.) 

Sober  gray  skies  and  ponderous  clouds, 
With  gaps  between  of  pallid  blues ; 
Bluff  breezes  stirring  the  brown  canal ; 

A broad,  flat  meadow’s  myriad  hues 

Of  soft  and  changeful  breadths  of  green, 
Barred  with  the  silvery  grass  that  bows 
By  straight  canals,  and  dotted  o’er 

With  black  and  white  of  basking  cows; 


And  distant  sails  of  hidden  ships 

The  ceaseless  windmills  show  or  hide, 
Through  languid  willows  white  they  gleam, 
And  over  red-tiled  houses  glide. 


Two  sturdy  lads  with  wooden  shoes 

Go  clumping  down  the  reed-fringed  dyke, 
And  tow  a broad-bowed  boat,  where  dreams 
The  quaint,  sweet  virgin  of  Van  Eyck. 


And  slipt  from  out  the  revel  high, 

Where  gay  Franz  Hals  has  bid  him  sit, 
Above  the  bridge,  his  lazy  pipe 
Smokes  placidly  the  stout  De  Witt. 

S.  Weir  Mitchell. 


124 


Jftomente  tott!)  &xt 


CXXVII. 

PORTRAIT  D’UNE  DAME  ESPAGNOLE. 
(Fortuny.) 

The  hand  that  drew  thee  lies  in  Roman  soil, 
Whilst  on  the  canvas  thou  hast  deathless 
grown, 

Endued  by  him  who  deemed  it  meaner  toil 
To  give  the  world  a portrait  save  thine  own. 

Yet  had  he  found  thy  peer,  and  Rome  forborne 
Such  envy  of  his  conquest  over  Time, 

Beauty  had  waked,  and  Art  another  morn 

Had  gained,  and  ceased  to  sorrow  for  her 
prime. 

What  spirit  was  it  — where  the  masters  are  — 
Brooding  the  gloom  and  glory  that  were 
Spain, 

Through  centuries  waited  in  its  orb  afar, 

Until  our  age  Fortuny’s  brush  should  gain  ? 

What  stroke  but  his  who  pictured  in  their  state 
Queen,  beggar,  noble,  Philip’s  princely 
brood, 

Could  thus  the  boast  of  Seville  recreate, 

Even  when  one  like  thee  before  him  stood  ? 

Like  thee,  own  child  of  Spain,  whose  beauteous 
pride, 

Desire,  disdain,  all  sins  thy  mien  express, 
Should  need  no  absolution — hadst  thou  died 
Unhouselled,  in  their  imaged  loveliness. 


foments  tottf)  &rt 


125 


All  this  had  Fate  decreed,  — the  antique  skill, 
The  halt,  the  poise,  the  long  auspicious  day,  — 
Yielding  this  once,  thy  triumph  to  fulfil, 
Velasquez’s  sceptre  to  Fortuny’s  sway. 

Shine  from  thy  cloud  of  night,  fair  star,  nor  fear 
Oblivion,  though  men  thy  dust  inurn, 

F or  who  may  bid  thy  counterpart  appear 
Until  the  hand  that  drew  thee  shall  return  ! 

E.  C.  Stedman. 


CXXVIII. 

THE  FLIGHT  INTO  EGYPT. 

(Suggested  by  the  Picture  of  Holman  Hunt.) 

Thou  wayfaring  Jesus,  a pilgrim  and  stranger. 
Exiled  from  heaven  by  love  at  Thy  birth, 
Exiled  again  from  Thy  rest  in  the  manger, 

A fugitive  child  ’mid  the  perils  of  earth  — 
Cheer  with  Thy  fellowship  all  who  are  weary, 
Wandering  far  from  the  land  that  they  love  ; 
Guide  every  heart  that  is  homeless  and  dreary 
Safe  to  its  home  in  Thy  presence  above. 

Henry  Van  Dyke. 

CXXIX 


Art,  properly  so  called,  is  no  recreation ; it 
cannot  be  learned  at  spare  moments,  nor  pur- 
sued when  we  have  nothing  better  to  do.  It  is  no 
handiwork  for  drawing-room  tables,  no  relief  of 
the  ennui  of  boudoirs  ; it  must  be  understood 
and  undertaken  seriously,  or  not  at  all.  To 
advance  it,  men’s  lives  must  be  given,  and  to 
receive  it  their  hearts. 


John  Ruskin. 


126 


foments  tottj)  Strt. 


CX. XX. 

ANDREA  DEL  SARTO. 

(Called  “The  Faultless  Painter.”) 

But  do  not  let  us  quarrel  any  more, 

No,  my  Lucrezia ; bear  with  me  for  once : 

Sit  down  and  all  shall  happen  as  you  wish. 

You  turn  your  face,  but  does  it  bring  your 
heart  ? 

I ’ll  work  then  for  your  friend’s  friend,  never  fear, 
Treat  his  own  subject  after  his  own  way, 

Fix  his  own  time,  accept  to  his  own  price, 

And  shut  the  money  into  this  small  hand 
When  next  it  takes  mine.  Will  it?  tenderly  ? 
Oh,  I ’ll  content  him,  — but  to-morrow,  Love  ! 

I often  am  much  wearier  than  you  think, 

This  evening  more  than  usual,  and  it  seems 
As  if  — forgive  now  — should  you  let  me  sit 
Here  by  the  window  with  your  hand  in  mine 
And  look  a half-hour  forth  on  Fiesole, 

Both  of  one  mind,  as  married  people  use, 
Quietly,  quietly  the  evening  through, 

I might  get  up  to-morrow  to  my  work 
Cheerful  and  fresh  as  ever.  Let  us  try. 
To-morrow,  how  you  shall  be  glad  for  this  ! 
Your  soft  hand  is  a woman  of  itself, 

And  mine  the  man’s  bared  breast  she  curls 
inside. 

Don’t  count  the  time  lost,  neither ; you  must 
serve. 

For  each  of  the  five  pictures  we  require : 

It  saves  a model.  So  ! keep  looking  so  — 


foment*  toitf)  art. 


127 


My  serpentining  beauty,  rounds  on  rounds  ! 

— How  could  you  ever  prick  those  perfect  ears, 
Even  to  put  the  pearl  there  ! 0I1,  so  sweet  — 

My  face,  my  moon,  my  everybody’s  moon, 
Which  everybody  looks  on  and  calls  his, 

And,  I suppose,  is  looked  on  by  in  turn, 

While  she  looks  — no  one’s  : very  dear,  no  less. 
You  smile  ? why,  there ’s  my  picture  ready  made, 
There ’s  what  we  painters  call  our  harmony  ! 

A common  grayness  silvers  everything,  — 

All  in  a twilight,  you  and  I alike 

— You,  at  the  point  of  your  first  pride  in  me 
(That ’s  gone,  you  know),—  but  I,  at  every  point ; 
My  youth,  my  hope,  my  art,  being  all  toned  down 
To  yonder  sober  pleasant  Fiesole. 

There ’s  the  bell  clinking  from  the  chapel-top; 
That  length  of  convent-wall  across  the  way 
Holds  the  trees  safer,  huddled  more  inside ; 

The  last  monk  leaves  the  garden  ; days  decrease, 
And  autumn  grows,  autumn  in  everything. 

Eh  ? the  whole  seems  to  fall  into  a shape, 

As  if  I saw  alike  my  work  and  self 
And  all  that  I was  born  to  be  and  do, 

A twilight-piece.  Love,  we  are  in  God’s  hand. 
How  strange  now,  looks  the  life  He  makes  us 
lead ; 

So  free  we  seem,  so  fettered  fast  we  are  ! 

I feel  He  laid  the  fetter  : let  it  lie ! 

This  chamber,  for  example  — turn  your  head  — 
All  that ’s  behind  us ! You  don’t  understand 
Nor  care  to  understand  about  my  art, 

But  you  can  hear  at  least  when  people  speak: 


128 


^omenta  toitl)  &rt< 


And  that  cartoon,  the  second  from  the  door 

— It  is  the  thing,  Love ! so  such  things  should 

be : 

Behold  Madonna ! — I am  bold  to  say. 

I can  do  with  my  pencil  what  I know, 

What  I see,  what  at  bottom  of  my  heart 
I wish  for,  if  I ever  wish  so  deep  — 

Do  easily,  too  — when  I say,  perfectly, 

I do  not  boast,  perhaps  : yourself  are  judge, 
Who  listened  to  the  Legate’s  talk  last  week, 

And  just  as  much  they  used  to  say  in  France. 
At  any  rate ’t  is  easy,  all  of  it ! 

No  sketches  first,  no  studies,  that ’s  long  past: 

I do  what  many  dream  of,  all  their  lives, 

— Dream  ? strive  to  do,  and  agonize  to  do, 

And  fail  in  doing.  I could  count  twenty  such 
On  twice  your  fingers,  and  not  leave  this  town, 
Who  strive — you  don’t  know  how  the  others 

strive 

To  paint  a little  thing  like  that  you  smeared 
Carelessly  passing  with  your  robes  afloat,  — 
Yet  do  much  less,  so  much  less,  Some  one  says, 
(I  know  his  name,  no  matter)  — so  much  less ! 
Well,  less  is  more,  Lucrezia:  I am  judged. 
There  burns  a truer  light  of  God  in  them, 

In  their  vexed  beating  stuffed  and  stopped-up 
brain, 

Heart,  or  whate’er  else,  than  goes  on  to  prompt 
This  low-pulsed  forthright  craftsman’s  hand  of 
mine. 

Their  works  drop  groundward,  but  themselves, 
I know, 


ffElcmtents  tottl)  Strt. 


129 


Reach  many  a time  a heaven  that ’s  shut  to  me, 
Enter  and  take  their  place  there  sure  enough, 
Though  they  come  back  and  cannot  tell  the 
world. 

My  works  are  nearer  heaven,  but  I sit  here. 

The  sudden  blood  of  these  men  ! at  a word  — 
Praise  them,  it  boils,  or  blame  them,  it  boils  too. 
I,  painting  from  myself  and  to  myself, 

Know  what  I do,  am  unmoved  by  men’s  blame 
Or  their  praise  either.  Somebody  remarks 
Morello’s  outline  there  is  wrongly  traced, 

His  hue  mistaken  ; what  of  that?  or  else, 
Rightly  traced  and  well  ordered  ; what  of  that? 
Speak  as  they  please,  what  does  the  mountain 
care  ? 

Ah,  but  a man’s  reach  should  exceed  his  grasp, 
Or  what ’s  a heaven  for  ? All  is  silver-gray, 
Placid  and  perfect  with  my  art : the  worse! 

I know  both  what  I want  and  what  might  gain ; 
And  yet  how  profitless  to  know,  to  sigh 
“ PI  ad  I been  two,  another  and  myself, 

Our  head  would  have  o’er-looked  the  world!” 
No  doubt. 

Yonder ’s  a work  now,  of  that  famous  youth 
The  Urbinate  who  died  five  years  ago. 

(’T  is  copied,  George  Vasari  sent  it  me.) 

Well,  I can  fancy  how  he  did  it  all, 

Pouring  his  soul,  with  kings  and  popes  to  see, 
Reaching,  that  heaven  might  so  replenish  him, 
Above  and  through  his  art  — for  it  gives  way ; 
That  arm  is  wrongly  put  — and  there  again  — 

A fault  to  pardon  in  the  drawing’s  lines, 


130 


foments  tottl)  &tL 


Its  body,  so  to  speak : its  soul  is  right, 

He  means  right  — that,  a child  may  understand. 
Still,  what  an  arm  ! and  I could  alter  it : 

But  all  the  play,  the  insight  and  the  stretch  — 
Out  of  me,  out  of  me  ! And  wherefore  out  ? 
Had  you  enjoined  them  on  me,  given  me  soul, 
We  might  have  risen  to  Rafael,  I and  you. 

Nay,  Love,  you  did  give  all  I asked,  I think  — 
More  than  I merit,  yes,  by  many  times. 

But  had  you  — oh,  with  the  same  perfect  brow, 
And  perfect  eyes,  and  more  than  perfect  mouth, 
And  the  low  voice  my  soul  hears,  as  a bird 
The  fowler’s  pipe,  and  follows  to  the  snare  — 
Had  you,  with  these  the  same,  but  brought  a 
mind  ! 

Some  women  do  so.  Had  the  mouth  there 
urged 

“ God  and  the  glory  ! never  care  for  gain. 

The  present  by  the  future,  what  is  that? 

Live  for  fame,  side  by  side  with  Agnolo ! 

Rafael  is  waiting  : up  to  God,  all  three  ! ” 

I might  have  done  it  for  you.  So  it  seems : 
Perhaps  not.  All  is  as  God  overrules. 

Beside,  incentives  come  from  the  soul’s  self; 
The  rest  avail  not.  Why  do  I need  you  ? 

What  wife  had  Rafael,  or  has  Agnolo? 

In  this  world,  who  can  do  a thing,  will  not; 

And  who  would  do  it,  cannot,  I perceive  : 

Yet  the  will’s  somewhat  — somewhat,  too,  the 
power  — 

And  thus  we  half-men  struggle.  At  the  end, 
God,  I conclude,  compensates,  punishes. 


foments  tottf)  &rt. 


131 


JT  is  safer  for  me,  if  the  award  be  strict, 

That  I am  something  underrated  here, 

Poor  this  long  while,  despised,  to  speak  the 
truth. 

I dared  not,  do  you  know,  leave  home  all  day, 
For  fear  of  chancing  on  the  Paris  lords. 

The  best  is  when  they  pass  and  look  aside  ; 

But  they  speak  sometimes  : I must  bear  it  all. 
Well  may  they  speak  ! That  Francis,  that  first 
time, 

And  that  long  festal  year  at  Fontainebleau ! 

I surely  then  could  sometimes  leave  the  ground, 
Put  on  the  glory,  Rafael’s  daily  wear, 

In  that  humane  great  monarch’s  golden  look, — 
One  finger  in  his  beard  or  twisted  curl 
Over  his  mouth’s  good  mark  that  made  the 
smile, 

One  arm  about  my  shoulder,  round  my  neck, 
The  jingle  of  his  gold  chain  in  my  ear, 

I painting  proudly  with  his  breath  on  me, 

All  his  court  round  him,  seeing  with  his  eyes, 
Such  frank  French  eyes,  and  such  a fire  of  souls 
Profuse,  my  hand  kept  plying  by  those  hearts, — 
And,  best  of  all,  this,  this,  this  face  beyond, 

This  in  the  background,  waiting  on  my  work, 
To  crown  the  issue  with  a last  reward  ! 

A good  time,  was  it  not,  my  kingly  days  ? 

And  had  you  not  grown  restless  . . . but  I 
know  — 

’T  is  done  and  past ; ’t  was  right,  my  instinct  said ; 
Too  live  the  life  grew,  golden  and  not  gray: 
And  I ’m  the  weak-eyed  bat  no  sun  should  tempt 


132 


foments  tout!)  &tt. 


Out  of  the  grange  whose  four  walls  make  his 
world. 

How  could  it  end  in  any  other  way  ? 

You  called  me,  and  I came  home  to  your  heart. 
The  triumph  was,  to  have  ended  there;  then,  if 
I reached  it  ere  the  triumph,  what  is  lost  ? 

Let  my  hands  frame  your  face  in  your  hair  s 

gold’  . , . , 

You  beautiful  Lucrezia  that  are  mine ! 

“Rafael  did  this,  Andrea  painted  that; 

The  Roman’s  is  the  better  when  you  pray, 

But  still  the  other’s  Virgin  was  his  wife  ” — 

Men  will  excuse  me.  1 am  glad  to  judge 

Both  pictures  in  your  presence ; clearer  grows 

My  better  fortune,  I resolve  to  think. 

For,  do  you  know,  Lucrezia,  as  God  lives, 

Said  one  day  Agnolo,  his  very  self,. 

To  Rafael  ...  I have  known  it  all  these 

years  ... 

(When  the  young  man  was  flaming  out  his 
thoughts 

Upon  a palace-wall  for  Rome  to  see, 

Too  lifted  up  in  heart  because  of  it) 

“ Friend,  there ’s  a certain  sorry  little  scrub 
Goes  up  and  down  our  Florence,  none  cares 
how, 

Who,  were  he  set  to  plan  and  execute 

As  you  are,  pricked  on  by  your  popes  and 

kings,  „ 

Would  bring  the  sweat  into  that  brow  of  yours  . 
To  Rafael’s  ! — And  indeed  the  arm  is  wrong. 
I hardly  dare  . . . yet,  only  you  to  see, 


foments  toitf)  &rt. 


133 


Give  the  chalk  here— quick,  thus  the  line 
should  go ! 

Av,  but  the  soul ! he ’s  Rafael ! rub  it  out ! 

Still,  all  I care  for,  if  he  spoke  the  truth, 

(What  he?  why,  who  but  Michel  Agnolo? 

Do  you  forget  already  words  like  those  ?) 

If  really  there  was  such  a chance  so  lost,  — 

Is,  whether  you’re  — not  grateful  — but  more 
pleased. 

Well,  let  me  think  so.  And  you  smile  indeed  ! 
This  hour  has  been  an  hour ! Another  smile  ? 

If  you  would  sit  thus  by  me  every  night 
I should  work  better,  do  you  comprehend  ? 

I mean  that  I should  earn  more,  give  you  more. 
See,  it  is  settled  dusk  now;  there ’s  a star; 
Morello ’s  gone,  the  watch-lights  show  the  wall, 
The  cue-owls  speak  the  name  we  call  them  by. 
Come  from  the  window,  love,  — come  in,  at  last, 
Inside  the  melancholy  little  house 
We  built  to  be  so  gay  with.  God  is  just. 

King  Francis  may  forgive  me  : oft  at  nights 
When  I look  up  from  painting,  eyes  tired  out, 
The  walls  become  illumined,  brick  from  brick 
Distinct,  instead  of  mortar,  fierce  bright  gold, 
That  gold  of  his  I did  cement  them  with  ! 

Let  us  but  love  each  other.  Must  you  go  ? 
That  cousin  here  again?  he  waits  outside? 

Must  see  you  — you,  and  not  with  me  ? Those 
loans  ? 

More  gaming  debts  to  pay  ? you  smiled  for  that  ? 
Well,  let  smiles  buy  me!  have  you  more  to 
spend  ? 


134 


JHoinenta  toitf)  3rt. 


While  hand  and  eye  and  something  of  a heart 
Are  left  me,  work’s  my  ware,  and  what’s  it 
worth  ? 

I ’ll  pay  my  fancy.  Only  let  me  sit 
The  gray  remainder  of  the  evening  out, 

Idle,  you  call  it,  and  muse  perfectly 
How  I could  paint,  were  I but  back  in  France, 
One  picture,  just  one  more  — the  Virgin’s  face, 
Not  yours  this  time ! I want  you  at  my  side 
To  hear  them  — that  is,  Michel  Agnolo  — 

Judge  all  I do  and  tell  you  of  its  worth. 

Will  you?  To-morrow  satisfy  your  friend. 

I take  the  subjects  for  his  corridor, 

Finish  the  portrait  out  of  hand  — there,  there, 
And  throw  him  in  another  thing  or  two 
If  he  demurs  : the  whole  should  prove  enough 
To  pay  for  this  same  cousin’s  freak.  Beside, 
What ’s  better  and  what ’s  all  I care  about, 

Get  you  the  thirteen  scudi  for  the  ruff ! 

Love,  does  that  please  you  ? Ah,  but  what  does 
he, 

The  cousin  ! what  does  he  to  please  you  more? 

I am  grown  peaceful  as  old  age  to-night. 

I regret  little,  I would  change  still  less, 

Since  there  my  past  life  lies,  why  alter  it? 

The  very  wrong  to  Francis  ! — it  is  true 
I took  his  coin,  was  tempted  and  complied, 

And  built  this  house  and  sinned,  and  all  is 
said. 

My  father  and  my  mother  died  of  want. 

Well,  had  I riches  of  my  own?  you  see 


fKaments  tottj)  SrL 


135 


How  one  gets  rich  ! Let  each  one  bear  his  lot. 
They  were  born  poor,  lived  poor,  and  poor  they 
died : 

And  I have  labored  somewhat  in  my  time 
And  not  been  paid  profusely.  Some  good  son 
Paint  my  two  hundred  pictures  — let  him  try ! 
No  doubt,  there ’s  something  strikes  a balance. 
Yes, 

You  loved  me  quite  enough,  it  seems  to-night. 
This  must  suffice  me  here.  What  would  one 
have  ? 

In  heaven,  perhaps,  new  chances,  one  more 
chance  — 

Four  great  walls  in  the  New  Jerusalem, 

Meted  on  each  side  by  the  angel’s  reed, 

For  Leonard,  Rafael,  Agnolo,  and  me. 

To  cover  — the  three  first  without  a wife, 

While  I have  mine ! So  — still  they  overcome 
Because  there’s  still  Lucrezia,  — as  I choose. 

Again  the  cousin’s  whistle  ! Go,  my  love. 

Robert  Browning. 


CXXXI. 

MICHELANGELO’S  MOSES. 

The  captain’s  might,  and  mystery  of  the  seer 
Remoteness  of  Jehovah’s  colloquist, 

Nearness  of  man’s  heaven-advocate  — are  here : 
Alone  Mount  Nebo’s  harsh  foreshadow  is 
miss’d. 


William  Watson. 


JHotttttits  iuitf)  Set. 


136 


CX XXI I, 

K'  the  NEW  COLOSSUS.1 

Not  like  the  brazen  giant  of  Greek  fame, 

With  conquering  limbs  astride  from  land  to 
land ; 

Here  at  our  sea-washed,  sunset  gates  shall  stand 
A mighty  woman  with  a torch,  whose  flame 
Is  the  imprisoned  lightning,  and  her  name 
Mother  of  Exiles.  From  her  beacon-hand 
Glows  world-wide  welcome ; her  mild  eyes  com- 
mand 

The  air-bridged  harbor  that  twin  cities  frame. 

“ Keep,  ancient  lands,  your  storied  pomp  ! ” cries 
she 

With  silent  lips.  “ Give  me  your  tired,  your  poor, 
Your  huddled  masses  yearning  to  breathe  free, 
The  wretched  refuse  of  your  teeming  shore. 
Send  these,  the  homeless,  tempest-tost  to  me, 

I lift  my  lamp  beside  the  golden  door  ! ” 

Emma  Lazarus. 


CXXXIII. 

But  I still  insist  on  my  democratic  liberty  of 
choice,  and  I go  for  the  man  with  the  gallery 
of  family  portraits  against  the  one  with  the 
twenty-five-cent  daguerrotype,  unless  I find  out 
that  the  last  is  the  better  of  the  two. 

O.  W.  Holmes. 


1 Written  in  aid  of  Bartholdi  Pedestal  Fund,  1883. 


foments  toitl)  &rt. 


i37 


c XX XIV. 

BEFORE  TITIAN’S  PORTRAIT  OF  HIMSELF 
AT  NINETY. 

(In  the  Gallery  of  the  Prado  at  Madrid.) 

O gentle  fiery  soul,  what  can  thy  fame 
Receive  of  homage  that  has  not  been  brought  ? 
Master  of  masters  ! may  the  secret  caught 
By  thee  from  whispering  Death  forever  shame 
The  faltering  toiler,  may  its  power  be  flame 
To  wither  doubt  and  fear  that  set  at  nought 
Divinest  summons  ! May  thy  portrait  wrought 
By  thee  in  age  inspire  renewed  high  aim  ! 

Lo  ! by  thine  art  triumphant  martyrs  kneel, 

Or  saints  and  kings  the  Holy  Child  adore; 

On  yonder  wall  the  Emperor  Carlos  rides, 

Yet  here  thy  soul  more  dauntlessly  abides. 

Thy  powers  in  waning  mightily  reveal 
Beauty  and  nobleness  unguessed  before  ! 

Minna  Caroline  Smith. 

CXXX  V. 

O ’er  the  Rembrandt  there  — the  Caracci  here 
Flutter  warmly  the  ruddy  and  wavering  hues ; 
And  Saint  Anthony  over  his  book  has  a leer 
At  the  little  French  beauty  by  Greuze. 

Owen  Meredith. 


CXXXVI. 

Genius  does  what  it  must,  and  talent  does 
what  it  can. 


Owen  Meredith. 


138 


^laments  tot tf)  &rt 


CXXXVII. 

V THE  WINGED  VICTORY. 

On  the  dim  borders  of  an  ancient  world 
For  one  breath’s  space,  there  stood  a heavenly 
form ; 

Perfectly  fair,  perfectly  beautiful. 

Born  of  men’s  best  and  of  men’s  worst  desires 
Born  of  best  hope  and  half-conceived  success, 
Paeans  of  all  worlds  ringing  out  her  birth, 

The  swift-hushed  strife  of  nations  in  her  ears, 
Hot  kisses  shaken  from  a thousand  lips 
Rained  on  the  sand  her  foot  spurned ; eyes  wine- 
bleared 

Looked  up,  and  from  hoarse  throats  half  drunk 
with  blood 

Hosannas  broke.  “ Oh  greeting,  greeting  — 
Hail ! ” 

The  hands  of  kings,  fine  ringed ; the  statesman’s 
hand, 

Mighty,  thick-fingered,  full  of  pride  and  power; 
The  mailed  glove  of  war,  — the  sages’  hands, 
The  yellow,  miser,  gold-absorbing  hand, 

The  poet’s,  and  the  hand  with  brush  and  pen, 
Rose  like  a laurel  yielding  wood  of  trees 
Acclaimed,  besought,  “ oh  greeting,  greeting 
Hail ! ” 

Under  the  breeze-swift  accent  of  her  foot 
A strange  bark  pressed  its  curved  prow  to  sea. 
(Oh  gods,  what  from  her  face  and  body’s  shrine 
Of  perfect  beauty  have  ye  yet  withheld 
That  an  immortal  still  may  equal  her 


foments  tasit!)  2ttt. 


139 


If  not  excel  ?) 

Slow  rising  from  the  seas, 

And  morning  lands  of  lilies,  and  cold  hills 
Stirred  wandering  mists,  and  creeping  came  to 
her 

Encircled,  and  clung  close. 

From  head  to  foot, 

Across  her  loins,  up  to  her  swelling  breast 
Took  curve,  and  line  and  fold,  and  half-way  fell 
From  the  round,  lovely,  gently  swelling  sphere. 
Then  the  four  winds  of  heaven  met  and  took 
form. 

With  the  cold  brusqueness  of  the  virgin  North, — 
And  strong  eternal  sweeping  of  the  East,  — 
And  vague  voluptuous  languor  of  the  South, 
And  fresh  wide-reaching  fortune  of  the  West, — 
Melted,  and  kissed  and  knit  themselves  to  wings. 
Thus  mist  clad,  and  wind  winged,  she  moved  to 
life. 

Under  her  foot  the  galley  put  to  sea 
She  winged  it,  bore  it,  sped  it ; turning  not 
For  all  the  glad  sea  islands  of  the  dawn; 

For  all  the  sapphire  havens  of  the  night; 

For  all  the  gala  portals  of  the  world; 

The  fluttering  brilliant  banners,  the  acclaims 
The  martial,  fame-compelling  festivals 
Broke  not  her  dream,  and  but  one  zephyr  stirred 
The  vapors  of  her  clinging  draperies. 

To  one  bright  island  in  the  Aegean  Sea, 

To  Greece,  to  blue-bound  smiling  Samothrace 
She  sped,  and  high  upon  the  shelving  shore 


140  foments  tuttft  &rt* 


The  galley  ran  its  prow  not  to  be  stirred 
For  twice  a thousand  years  : 

And  thus  she  came 

To  the  heart  summonings  of  half  a race. 

Into  the  golden  age  of  Greece  and  Song 
An  Inspiration,  Poem,  Form,  a Dream 
Genius  conceived,  love  born,  art  perfected. 

And  to  that  island  only,  (bright  sea  bound 
That  mirage,  that  rose  garden  where  love  was) 
The  winged  Victory  came, 

With  those  who  loved, 
Who  died  warm-hearted,  glowing  lip  on  lip 
Part  of  the  art  and  glory  of  the  time, 

She  laid  her  down  in  golden  dust  to  sleep 
Ages  and  ages. 

And  it  is  to  those 

Who  love  and  sleep  as  if  the  Victory 
Ever  beside  them,  mingles  dust  with  dust 
Beauty  with  ashes. 

In  whatever  dawn 

Their  eyes  shall  see,  they  look  to  see  her  face, 
To  wake  in  her  embrace,  as  one  with  her, 
Winged,  Victorious. 

Marie  van  Vorst. 


CXXXVIIL 

Noble  art  is  nothing  less  than  the  expression 
of  a great  soul ; and  great  souls  are  not  common 
things. 


John  Ruskin. 


foments  tottf) 


141 


CXXXIX. 

ON  BEETHOVEN  COMPOSING  “THE  MOON- 
LIGHT SONATA.” 

(To  the  Picture-Sketch  by  Benjamin  Constant.) 

Deep  shadows  fall  upon  the  simple  room 
That  genius  fills  with  heavenly  peace  brought 
near 

In  melody  to  touch  all  those  who  hear  — 

Which  there  intoned  will  echo  till  Earth’s  doom. 
’T  is  born  of  midnight  dark,  from  out  the  womb 
Of  pain,  the  misery  of  deafness  drear  ; 

Yet  when  it  sounds  dull  grief  doth  disappear 
And  gladness  dawns  displacing  worldly  gloom. 
For  see ! how  bathed  in  dream  of  mystic  light 
He  sat,  the  moonbeams  on  his  massive  brow 
And  front,  as  inspiration  to  endow 
His  soul  that  hour  with  music’s  rarest  might,. 
Which  trembled  urgent  from  the  quaint  clavier 
In  accents  so  divinely  pure  and  clear. 

J.  Murray  Templeton. 

CXL. 

A MADONNA  OF  FRA  LIPPO  LIPPI. 

No  Heavenly  maid  we  here  behold, 

Though  round  her  brow  a ring  of  gold ; 

This  baby,  solemn-eyed  and  sweet, 

Is  human  all  from  head  to  feet. 

Together  close  her  palms  are  prest 
In  worship  of  that  godly  guest: 

But  glad  her  heart  and  unafraid 
While  on  her  neck  his  hand  is  laid. 


142 


foments  toitt)  art. 


Two  children,  happy,  laughing,  gay, 

Uphold  the  little  child  in  play; 

Not  flying  angels  these,  what  though 
Four  wings  from  their  four  shoulders  grow. 

Fra  Lippo,  we  have  learned  from  thee 
A lesson  of  humanity  ; 

To  every  mother’s  heart  forlorn, 

In  every  house  the  Christ  is  born. 

Richard  Watson  Gilder. 

CXLI. 

ON  RAPHAEL’S  ARCHANGEL  MICHAEL. 

From  out  the  depths  of  crocus-colored  morn 
With  rush  of  wings  the  strong  Archangel 
came 

And  glistening  spear ; and  leapt  as  leaps  a 
flame 

On  Satan  unprepared  and  earthward  borne  ; 
And  rolled  the  sunless  Rebel,  bruised  and  torn, 
Upon  the  earth’s  bare  plain,  in  dust  and 
shame, 

Holding  awhile  his  spear’s  suspended  aim 
Above  his  humbled  head  in  radiant  scorn. 

So  leaps  within  the  soul  on  Wrong  or  Lust 
The  warrior  Angel  whom  we  deem  not  near, 
And  rolls  the  rebel  impulse  in  the  dust, 

Scathing  its  neck  with  his  triumphal  tread, 
And  holding  high  his  bright  coercing  spear 
Above  its  inexterminable  head. 

E.  Lee  Hamilton. 


ft laments  toitj)  3tr t. 


143 


CXLII. 

ROMNEY’S  REMORSE. 

1 read  Hayley’s  “Life  of  Romney  ” the  other  day  — 
Romney  wanted  but  education  and  reading  to  make  him 
a very  fine  painter : but  his  ideal  was  not  high  nor  fixed. 
How  touching  is  the  close  of  his  life  ! He  married  a*  m^e' 
teen,  and  because  Sir  Joshua  and  others  had  said  that 
‘marriage  spoilt  an  artist,’  almost  immediately  left  his 
wife  in  the  North  and  scarce  saw  her  till  the  end  of  his 
life;  when  old,  nearly  mad,  and  quite  desolate,  he  went 
back  to  her  and  she  received  him  and  nursed  him  till  he 
died.  This  quiet  act  of  hers  is  worth  all  Romney’s  pic- 
tures ! even  as  a matter  of  Art,  I am  sure.  Letters  and 
Literary  Remains  of  Edward  Fitzgerald , Vol.  I. 

‘ Beat,  little  heart  — I give  you  this  and  this.’ 
Who  are  you?  What!  the  Lady  Hamilton? 
Good,  I am  never  weary  painting  you. 

To  sit  once  more?  Cassandra,  Hebe,  Joan, 

Or  spinning  at  your  wheel  beside  the  vine  — 
Bacchante,  what  you  will  ; and  if  I fail 
To  conjure  and  concentrate  into  form 
And  color  all  you  are,  the  fault  is  less 
In  me  than  Art.  What  Artist  ever  yet 
Could  make  pure  light  live  on  the  canvas  ? Art ! 
Why  should  I so  disrelish  that  short  word? 

Where  am  I ? snow  on  all  the  hills  ! so  hot, 
So  fever’d ! never  colt  would  more  delight 
To  roll  himself  in  meadow  grass  than  I 
To  wallow  in  that  winter  of  the  hills. 

Nurse,  were  you  hired  ? or  came  of  your  own 
will 

To  wait  on  one  so  broken,  so  forlorn  ? 

Have  I not  met  you  somewhere  long  ago  ? 


144 


JHomeats  toitl)  9Crt. 


I am  all  but  sure  I have  — in  Kendal  church  — 
O,  yes  ! I hired  you  for  a season  there, 

And  then  we  parted ; but  you  look  so  kind 
That  you  will  not  deny  my  sultry  throat 
One  draught  of  icy  water.  There  — you  spill 
The  drops  upon  my  forehead.  Your  hand 
shakes. 

I am  ashamed.  I am  a trouble  to  you, 

Could  kneel  for  your  forgiveness.  Are  they 
tears  ? 

F or  me  — they  do  me  too  much  grace  — for  me  ? 
O Mary,  Mary! 

V exing  you  with  words ! 
Words  only,  born  of  fever,  or  the  fumes 
Of  that  dark  opiate  dose  you  gave  me, — 
words, 

Wild  babble.  I have  stumbled  back  again 
Into  the  common  day,  the  sounder  self. 

God  stay  me  there,  if  only  for  your  sake, 

The  truest,  kindliest,  noblest-hearted  wife 
That  ever  wore  a Christian  marriage-ring. 

My  curse  upon  the  Master’s  apothegm, 

That  wife  and  children  drag  an  artist  down ! 
This  seem’d  my  lodestar  in  the  heaven  of  Art, 
And  lured  me  from  the  household  fire  on 
earth. 

To  you  my  days  have  been  a lifelong  lie, 
Grafted  on  half  a truth ; and  tho’  you  say, 
‘Take  comfort,  you  have  won  the  Painter’s 
fame,’ 

The  best  in  me  that  sees  the  worst  in  me, 

And  groans  to  see  it,  finds  no  comfort  there. 


145 


foments  toitj)  3lrt* 


What  fame  ? I am  not  Raphael,  Titian  — no 
Nor  even  a Sir  Joshua,  some  will  cry. 

Wrong  there  ! The  painter’s  fame  ? but  mine, 
that  grew 

Blown  into  glittering  by  the  popular  breath, 

May  float  awhile  beneath  the  sun,  may  roll 
The  rainbow  hues  of  heaven  about  it  — 

There ! 

The  color’d  bubble  bursts  above  the  abyss 
Of  Darkness,  utter  Lethe. 

Is  it  so  ? 

Her  sad  eyes  plead  for  my  own  fame  with  me 
To  make  it  dearer. 

Look,  the  sun  has  riseil 
To  flame  along  another  dreary  day. 

Your  hand.  How  bright  you  keep  your  mar- 
riage ring ! 

Raise  me.  I thank  you. 

Has  your  opiate  then 
Bred  this  black  mood  ? or  am  I conscious,  more 
Than  other  Masters,  of  the  chasm  between 
Work  and  Ideal?  Or  does  the  gloom  of  Age 
And  suffering  cloud  the  height  I stand  upon 
Even  from  myself  ? stand  ? stood  — no  more. 

And  yet 

The  world  would  lose,  if  such  a wife  as  you 
Should  vanish  unrecorded.  Might  I crave 
One  favor  ? Iam  bankrupt  of  all  claim 
On  your  obedience,  and  my  strongest  wish 
Falls  flat  before  your  least  unwillingness. 

Still  would  you  — if  it  please  you  — sit  to 
me? 


IO 


146 


foments  tottl)  t 


. . . There,  there,  there ! a child 
Had  shamed  me  at  it — Down,  you  idle  tools, 
Stampt  into  dust  — tremulous,  all  awry, 

Blurr’d  like  a landskip  in  a ruffled  pool,  — 

Not  one  stroke  firm.  This  Art,  that  harlot-like 
Seduced  me  from  you,  leaves  me  harlot-like, 
Who  love  her  still,  and  whimper,  impotent 
To  win  her  back  before  I die  — and  then  — 
Then,  in  the  loud  world’s  bastard  judgment-day, 
One  truth  will  damn  me  with  the  mindless  mob, 
Who  feel  no  touch  of  my  temptation,  more 
Than  all  the  myriad  lies,  that  blacken  round 
The  corpse  of  every  man  that  gains  a name  ; 
‘This  model  husband,  this  fine  Artist ! ’ Fool, 
What  matters  ? Six  foot  deep  of  burial  mould 
Will  dull  their  comments ! Ay,  but  when  the 
shout 

Of  His  descending  peals  from  heaven,  and 
throbs 

Thro’  earth  and  all  her  graves,  if  He  should 
ask 

« Why  left  you  wife  and  children  ? for  my  sake, 
According  to  my  word  ? ’ and  I replied 
‘ Nay,  Lord,  for  'Art,9  why,  that  would  sound  so 
mean 

That  all  the  dead,  who  wait  the  doom  of  hell 
For  bolder  sins  than  mine,  adulteries, 
Wife-murders,  — nay,  the  ruthless  Mussulman 
Who  flings  his  bowstrung  harem  in  the  sea, 
Would  turn,  and  glare  at  me,  and  point  and 
jeer, 

And  gibber  at  the  worm  who,  living,  made 


foments  tottf)  2lrt 


147 


The  wife  of  wives  a widow-bride,  and  lost 
Salvation  for  a sketch. 

I am  wild  again  ! 

The  coals  of  fire  you  heap  upon  my  head 
Have  crazed  me.  . . . 

0 let  me  lean  my  head  upon  your  breast. 

‘ Beat,  little  heart  ’ on  this  fool  brain  of  mine. 

1 once  had  friends  — and  many  — none  like  you. 
I love  you  more  than  when  we  married.  Hope  ! 
O yes,  I hope,  or  fancy  that,  perhaps, 

Human  forgiveness  touches  heaven,  and 

thence  — 

For  you  forgive  me,  you  are  sure  of  that  — 
Reflected,  sends  a light  on  the  forgiven. 

Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson. 

CXL  III. 

The  habitual  choice  of  sacred  subjects,  such 
as  the  Nativity,  Transfiguration,  Crucifixion  (if 
the  choice  be  sincere),  implies  that  the  painter 
has  a natural  disposition  to  dwell  on  the  highest 
thoughts  of  which  humanity  is  capable  ; it  con- 
stitutes him,  so  far  forth,  a painter  of  the  highest 
order,  as,  for  instance,  Leonardo,  in  his  painting 
of  the  Last  Supper : he  who  delights  in  repre- 
senting the  acts  or  meditations  of  great  men,  as, 
for  instance,  Raphael  painting  the  School  of 
Athens,  is,  so  far  forth,  a painter  of  the  second 
order:  he  who  represents  the  passions  and 
events  of  ordinary  life,  of  the  third. 

John  Ruskin. 


148 


foments  toitl)  art. 


CXLIV. 

FOR  “THE  WINE  OF  CIRCE,”  BY  SIR 
EDWARD  BURNE-JONES. 

Dusk-haired  and  gold-robed  o ’er  the  golden 
wine 

She  stoops,  wherein,  distilled  of  death  and 
shame, 

Sink  the  black  drops  ; while  lit  with  fragrant 
flame, 

Round  her  spread  board  the  golden  sunflowers 
shine. 

Doth  Helios  here  with  Hecate  combine 
(O  Circe,  thou  their  votaress  !)  to  proclaim 
For  these  thy  guests  all  rapture  in  love’s 
name, 

Till  pitiless  Night  give  Day  the  countersign? 

Lords  of  their  hour,  they  come.  And  by  her 
knee 

Those  cowering  beasts,  their  equals  hereto- 
fore, 

Wait ; who  with  them  in  new  equality 

To-night  shall  echo  back  the  unchanging  roar 
Which  sounds  forever  from  the  tide-strown 
shore 

Where  the  dishevelled  seaweed  hates  the  sea. 

D.  G.  Rossetti. 


CXLV. 


Sculpture  is  the  art  of  discarding  super- 


fluities. 


A.  Canova. 


foments  tott!) 


149 


CXLVI. 

EASTER  IN  FLORENCE. 

The  echoes  of  a bygone  strife 

Seemed  surging  round  the  dark  Bargello; 

Marble  and  bronze  sprang  fresh  to  life 
Beneath  the  wand  of  Donatello  ; 

“ Night  ” seemed  to  sleep,  and  “ Dawn  ” to  wake 
Behind  the  walls  of  old  St.  Lawrence,  — 

There  hung  a spell  we  would  not  break 
About  our  Eastertide  at  Florence. 

Past  canvases,  by  years  undimmed, 

From  Antwerp,  Nuremberg,  and  Cadiz, 

To  mark  how  nobly  Titian  limned 
Gray  senators  and  high-born  ladies. 

From  grave  Mantegna’s  glowing  reds 
To  soft  Correggio’s  milder  graces ; 

From  Botticelli’s  down-cast  heads, 

To  bright  Andrea’s  smiling  faces  ; 

And  that  good  Friar,  to  whom  alone 
Of  mortal  men  was  spirit  given 

To  pierce  the  veil  that  shrouds  the  Throne, 
And  paint  the  golden  courts  of  Heaven. 


Silent  we  stood,  in  deepest  awe, 

Where  Raphael’s  hand  has  set  forever 
The  whirlwind  Israel’s  prophet  saw 
In  vision  by  the  captives’  river : 


jlomente  tottl)  &rt* 


150 


Silent,  where  sits  in  loveliest  guise 
The  wistful  Virgin  Mother,  leaning 
To  watch  her  wondrous  Infant’s  eyes, 
Enkindled  with  divinest  meaning. 

Time  mows  away  at  memory’s  flowers, 

He  holds  their  perfume  in  abhorrence  : 
Freely  we  ’ll  yield  him  most  of  ours, 

But  not  that  Eastertide  in  Florence  ! 

Robert,  Lord  Houghton. 

C XL  VII. 

BEFORE  THE  PICTURE  OF  THE  BAPTIST, 
BY  RAPHAEL,  IN  THE  GALLERY  AT 
FLORENCE. 

The  Baptist  might  have  been  ordained  to  cry 
Forth  from  the  towers  of  that  huge  Pile,  wherein 
His  father  served  Jehovah  ; but  how  win 
Due  audience,  how  for  aught  but  scorn  defy 
The  obstinate  pride  and  wanton  revelry 
Of  the  Jerusalem  below,  her  sin 
And  folly,  if  they  with  united  din 
Drown  not  at  once  mandate  and  prophecy? 
Therefore  the  Voice  spake  from  the  Desert, 
thence 

To  her,  as  to  her  opposite  in  peace, 

Silence,  and  holiness,  and  innocence, 

To  her  and  to  all  lands  its  warning  sent, 

Crying  with  earnestness  that  might  not  cease, 

“ Make  straight  a highway  for  the  Lord,  — 
repent ! ” 


William  Wordsworth. 


foments  toit!)  Urt. 


151 


C XL  VIII. 

MILAN. 

(Da  Vinci’s  Christ.) 

All  day  long,  year  after  year, 

Maid  and  man  and  priest  and  lay 

Wander  in  from  crowded  streets, 

And  through  the  long,  cool  gallery  stray. 

And  with  them,  in  the  fading  light, 

We  loiter  past  the  pictured  wall, 

Till  lo  ! a face  before  us  comes, 

And  something  wistful  seems  to  fall 

From  two  strange  eyes  that  speak  to  all; 
For  here  a priest,  and  there  a maid, 

Two  lads,  a soldier,  and  a bonne, 

Before  the  rail  their  steps  have  stayed. 

What  message  bore  this  awful  face, 
Through  all  the  waning  centuries  fled  ? 

What  says  it  to  the  gazer  now  ? 

What  said  it  to  the  myriad  dead 

Who  came  and  went  like  us  to-day, 

And,  pausing  here  in  silence,  all 

In  silence  laid  their  weight  of  sins 
Before  this  still  confessional  ? 

A face  more  sad  man  never  dreamed, 

A face  more  sweet  man  never  wrought ; 

So  solemn-sad,  so  solemn-sweet, 

Serenely  set  in  quiet  thought. 


fUmtnts  tottfc  3trt* 


152 


The  silent  sunlight  slips  away, 

The  soldiers  pass,  the  bonne  goes  by ; 

The  painter  drapes  his  copy  in, 

And  stops  his  work  and  heaves  a sigh. 

And  followed  by  those  eyes,  that  have 
The  patience  of  eternity, 

We  carry  to  the  bustling  street 
Their  loving  Benedicite . 

S.  Weir  Mitchell. 

CXLIX. 

UNPAID  WORK. 

He  hit  the  world’s  taste,  and  for  what  he  gave 
It  more  than  paid  him  — fame  and  fortune 
squander’d. 

He  overdid  its  taste  — became  its  slave; 

It  bought  him,  and  he  pander’d. 

’T  is  well  to  be  repaid  for  what  you  give : 

To  work  unpaid,  for  love  of  work,  is  better  — 
Bestowing  all  for  nothing  while  you  live  — 

And  leave  the  world  your  debtor. 

Robert  Leighton. 

CL. 

He  that  seeks  popularity  in  art  closes  the 
door  on  his  own  genius ; as  he  must  needs 
paint  for  other  minds,  and  not  for  his  own. 

Washington  Allston. 


foments  tottb  &tt. 


153 


CLI. 

BEAUTY. 


\\ 


There  is  not  anything  the  soul  more  craves 
Than  Beauty.  It  exalts  the  merest  line 
That  through  our  every-day  experience  waves 
Seeks  blindly  the  Divine. 

For  what  in  very  truth  is  this  we  crave, 

Which  neither  loads  the  board  nor  fills  ti 

purs6j  - 

Yet,  wanting  which,  the  earth  were  but  a grave, 
And  life  itself  a curse? 

The  visual  presence  of  the  living  God, 

That  permeates  creation,  comes  and  goes 
In  substance  and  in  shadow,  greens  the  sod, 

And  paints  and  scents  the  rose  : 

And  flows  through  man  into  his  works  of  art — 
The  picture’s  glow,  the  statues  breathing 

gleam  7 ■ .11 

For  not  a touch  of  Beauty  stirs  the  heart 

But  comes  of  the  Supreme  ! 

Robert  Leighton. 

CLU. 

In  some  sense  a person  who  has  never  seen 
the  rose-color  of  the  rays  of  dawn  crossing  a 
blue  mountain  twelve  or  fifteen  miles  away,  can 
hardly  be  said  to  know  what  tenderness  in  color 
means  at  all ; bright  tenderness  he  may,  indeed, 
see  in  the  sky  or  in  a flower,  but  this  grave  ten- 
derness of  the  far-away  hill-purples  he  cannot 
conceive.  *°HN  RusKIN< 


154 


foments  tottl)  art. 


CLIII. 

FRA  LIPPO  LIPPI. 

I AM  poor  brother  Lippo,  by  your  leave 
You  need  not  clap  your  torches  to  my  face. 
Zooks  ! what ’s  to  blame  ? you  think  you  see  a 
monk ! 

What,  ’t  is  past  midnight,  and  you  go  the  rounds, 
And  here  you  catch  me  at  an  alley’s  end 
Where  sportive  ladies  leave  their  doors  ajar? 
The  Carmine ’s  my  cloister:  hunt  it  up, 

Do,  — harry  out,  if  you  must  show  your  zeal 
Whatever  rat,  there,  haps  on  his  wrong  hole’ 
And  nip  each  softiing  of  a wee  white  mouse’ 
eke  weke,  that ’s  crept  to  keep  him  company ! 
Aha.  you  know  your  betters?  Then,  vou’ll 
take  J 

Your  hand  away  that ’s  fiddling  on  my  throat, 
nd  please  to  know  me  likewise.  Who  am  I? 
Why,  one,  sir,  who  is  lodging  with  a friend 
Three  streets  off  — he’s  a certain  . . . how  d’ve 
call  ? J 

Master  — a . . . Cosimo  of  the  Medici, 

I the  house  that  caps  the  corner.  Boh ! you 
were  best ! J 

Remember  and  tell  me  the  day  you  ’re  hano-ed 
How  you  affected  such  a gullet’s-gripe ! & ’ 

But  you,  sir,  it  concerns  you  that  your  knaves 
Tick  up  a manner,  nor  discredit  you : 

Zooks ! are  we  pilchards,  that  they  sweep  the 
streets 

And  count  fair  prize  what  comes  into  their  net? 


foments  toitt)  art. 


155 


He ’s  Judas  to  a tittle,  that  man  is  ! 

Just  such  a face  ! Why,  sir,  you  make  amends. 
Lord,  I ’m  not  angry ! Bid  your  hang-dogs  go 
Drink  out  this  quarter-florin  to  the  health 
Of  the  munificent  House  that  harbors  me 
(And  many  more  beside,  lads  ! more  beside !) . 
And  all ’s  come  square  again.  I ’d  like  his 
face  — 

His,  elbowing  on  his  comrade  in  the  door 
With  the  pike  and  lantern,  — for  the  slave  that 
holds 

John  Baptist’s  head  a-dangle  by  the  hair 
With  one  hand  (“Look  you,  now,”  as  who 
should  say) 

And  his  weapon  in  the  other,  yet  unwiped ! 

It’s  not  your  chance  to  have  a bit  of  chalk, 

A wood-coal  or  the  like  ? or  you  should  see ! 
Yes,  I ’m  the  painter,  since  you  style  me  so. 
What,  brother  Lippo’s  doings,  up  and  down, 
You  know  them,  and  they  take  you  ? like  enough  ! 
I saw  the  proper  twinkle  in  your  eye  — 

’Tell  you,  I liked  your  looks  at  very  first. 

Let’s  sit  and  set  things  straight  now,  hip  to 
haunch. 

Here’s  spring  come,  and  the  nights  one  makes 
up  bands 

To  roam  the  town  and  sing  out  carnival, 

And  I ’ve  been  three  weeks  shut  within  my  mew, 
A-painting  for  the  great  man,  saints  and  saints 
And  saints  again.  I could  not  paint  all  night 
Ouf ! I leaned  out  of  window  for  fresh  air. 
There  came  a hurry  of  feet  and  little  feet, 


156 


JHomenta  toitj)  &rt. 


A sweep  of  lute-strings,  laughs,  and  whiffs  of 
song,  — 

Flower  o'  the  broom , 

Take  away  love , and  our  earth  is  a tomb  / 
Flower  o'  the  quince, 

I let  Lisa  go,  and  what  good  hi  life  since  f 
Flower  o'  the  thyme  — and  so  on.  Round  they 
went. 

Scarce  had  they  turned  the  corner  when  a titter 
Like  the  skipping  of  rabbits  by  moonlight, — 
three  slim  shapes, 

And  a face  that  looked  up  . . . zooks,  sir,  flesh 
and  blood 

That  ’s  all  I ’m  made  of  ! Into  shreds  it  went, 
Curtain  and  counterpane  and  coverlet, 

All  the  bed  furniture  — a dozen  knots, 

There  was  a ladder  ! Down  I let  myself, 

Hands  and  feet,  scrambling  somehow,  and  so 
dropped, 

And  after  them.  I came  up  with  the  fun 
Hard  by  Saint  Lawrence,  hail  fellow,  well  met, — 
Flower  o'  the  rose, 

If  I've  been  merry,  what  matter  who  knows? 
And  so,  as  I was  stealing  back  again, 

To  get  to  bed  and  have  a bit  of  sleep 
Ere  I rise  up  to-morrow  and  go  work 
On  Jerome  knocking  at  his  poor  old  breast 
With  his  great  round  stone  to  subdue  the 
flesh, 

You  snap  me  of  the  sudden.  Ah,  I see  ! 

Though  your  eye  twinkles  still,  you  shake  your 
head  — 


foments  tottf)  art. 


157 


Mine ’s  shaved — a monk,  you  say  — the  sting ’s 
in  that ! 

If  Master  Cosimo  announced  himself, 

Mum ’s  the  word  naturally ; but  a monk ! 

Come,  what  am  I a beast  for  ? tell  us,  now  ! 

I was  a baby  when  my  mother  died 
And  father  died  and  left  me  in  the  street. 

I starved  there,  God  knows  how,  a year  or  two 
On  fig-skins,  melon-parings,  rinds  and  shucks, 
Refuse  and  rubbish.  One  fine  frosty  day, 

My  stomach  being  empty  as  your  hat, 

The  wind  doubled  me  up  and  down  I went. 

Old  aunt  Lapaccia  trussed  me  with  one  hand 
(Its  fellow  was  a stinger,  as  I knew), 

And  so  along  the  wall,  over  the  bridge, 

By  the  straight  cut  to  the  convent.  Six  words 
there, 

While  I stood  munching  my  first  bread  that 
month : 

“ So,  boy,  you  ’re  minded,”  quoth  the  'good  fat 
father 

Wiping  his  own  mouth,  ’t  was  refection-time,  — 
“ To  quit  this  very  miserable  world  ? 

Will  you  renounce”  . . . “the  mouthful  of 
bread  ? ” thought  I ; 

By  no  means  ! Brief,  they  made  a monk  of  me; 
I did  renounce  the  world,  its  pride  and  greed, 
Palace,  farm,  villa,  shop,  and  banking  house, 
Trash,  such  as  these  poor  devils  of  Medici 
Have  given  their  hearts  to  — all  at  eight  years 
old. 

Well,  sir,  I found  in  time,  you  may  be  sure, 


iHoramts  toitf)  Strt. 


158 


?T  was  not  for  nothing  — the  good  bellyful, 

The  warm  serge  and  the  rope  that  goes  all  round, 
And  day-long  blessed  idleness  beside  ! 

“ Let ’s  see  what  the  urchin ’s  fit  for  ” — that 
came  next. 

Not  overmuch  their  way,  I must  confess. 

Such  a to-do ! They  tried  me  with  their  books : 
Lord,  they ’d  have  taught  me  Latin  in  pure 
waste ! 

Flower  o ’ the  clove. 

All  the  Latin  I construe  is,  “ Amo  ” I love  / 
But,  mind  you,  when  a boy  starves  in  the  streets 
Eight  years  together  as  my  fortune  was, 
Watching  folk’s  faces  to  know  who  will  fling 
The  bit  of  half-stripped  grape-bunch  he  desires, 
And  who  will  curse  or  kick  him  for  his  pains,  — 
Which  gentleman  processional  and  fine, 
Holding  a candle  to  the  Sacrament, 

Will  wink  and  let  him  lift  a plate  and  catch 
The  droppings  of  the  wax  to  sell  again, 

Or  holla  for  the  Eight  and  have  him  whipped,  — 
How  say  I ? — nay,  which  dog  bites,  which  lets 
drop 

His  bone  from  the  heap  of  offal  in  the  street, — 
Why,  soul  and  sense  of  him  grow  sharp  alike, 
He  learns  the  look  of  things,  and  none  the  less 
For  admonition  from  the  hunger-pinch. 

I had  a store  of  such  remarks,  be  sure,  • 

Which,  after  I found  leisure,  turned  to  use: 

I drew  men’s  faces  on  my  copy-books, 

Scrawled  them  within  the  antiphonary’s  marge, 
Joined  legs  and  arms  to  the  long  music-notes, 


Momenta  tottl) 


159 


Found  eyes  and  nose  and  chin  for  A’s  and  B’s, 
And  made  a string  of  pictures  of  the  world 
Betwixt  the  ins  and  outs  of  verb  and  noun, 

On  the  wall,  the  bench,  the  door.  The  monks 
looked  black. 

“Nay,”  quoth  the  Prior,  “turn  him  out,  d’ye 
say  ? 

In  no  wise.  Lose  a crow  and  catch  a lark. 

What  if  at  last  we  get  our  man  of  parts, 

We  Carmelites,  like  those  Camaldolese 

And  Preaching  Friars,  to  do  our  church  up  fine 

And  put  the  front  on  it  that  ought  to  be  ! ” 

And  hereupon  he  bade  me  daub  away. 

Thank  you ! my  head  being  crammed,  the 
walls  a blank, 

Never  was  such  prompt  disemburdening. 

First  every  sort  of  monk,  the  black  and  white, 

I drew  them,  fat  and  lean  : then,  folks  at  church, 
From  good  old  gossips  waiting  to  confess 
Their  cribs  of  barrel-droppings,  candle-ends,  — 
To  the  breathless  fellow  at  the  altar-foot, 

Fresh  from  his  murder,  safe  and  sitting  there 
With  the  little  children  round  him  in  a row 
Of  admiration,  half  for  his  beard,  and  half 
For  that  white  anger  of  his  victim's  son 
Shaking  a fist  at  him  with  one  fierce  arm, 
Signing  himself  with  the  other  because  of  Christ 
(Whose  sad  face  on  the  cross  sees  only  this 
After  the  passion  of  a thousand  years), 

Till  some  poor  girl,  her  apron  o’er  her  head 
(Which  the  intense  eyes  looked  through),  came 
at  eve 


i6o 


Momenta  fcott& 


On  tiptoe,  said  a word,  dropped  in  a loaf, 

Her  pair  of  earrings  and  a bunch  of  flowers 
(The  brute  took  growling),  prayed,  and  so  was 
gone. 

I painted  all,  then  cried,  “’T  is  ask  and  have ; 
Choose,  for  more ’s  ready  ! ” — laid  the  ladder 
flat, 

And  showed  my  covered  bit  of  cloister-wall. 

The  monks  closed  in  a circle  and  praised  loud 
Till  checked,  taught  what  to  see  and  not  to 
see, 

Being  simple  bodies,  — “ That ’s  the  very  man ! 
Look  at  the  boy  who  stoops  to  pat  the  dog ! 
That  woman ’s  like  the  Prior’s  niece  who  comes 
To  care  about  his  asthma;  it ’s  the  life  ! ” 

But  there  my  triumph’s  straw-fire  flared  and 
funked ; 

Their  betters  took  their  turn  to  see  and  say : 
The  Prior  and  the  learned  pulled  a face 
And  stopped  all  that  in  no  time.  “ How  ? 
what ’s  here  ? 

Quite  from  the  mark  of  painting,  bless  us  all ! 
Faces,  arms,  legs,  and  bodies  like  the  true 
As  much  as  pea  and  pea ! it ’s  devil’s  game  ! 
Your  business  is  not  to  catch  men  with  show, 
With  homage  to  the  perishable  clay, 

But  lift  them  over  it,  ignore  it  all, 

Make  them  forget  there ’s  such  a thing  as  flesh. 
Your  business  is  to  paint  the  souls  of  men  — 
Man’s  soul,  and  it ’s  a fire,  smoke  . . . no,  it ’s 
not  . . . 

It’s  vapor  done  up  like  a new-born  babe  — 


jHonxentEi  toitb  3ttt. 


161 


(In  that  shape  when  you  die  it  leaves  your 
mouth), 

It’s  . . . well,  what  matters  talking,  it’s  the 
soul ! 

Give  us  no  more  of  body  than  shows  soul ! 
Here’s  Giotto,  with  his  Saint  a-praising  God, 
That  sets  us  praising,  — why  not  stop  with  him? 
Why  put  all  thoughts  of  praise  out  of  our  head 
With  wonder  at  lines,  colors,  and  what  not  ? 
Paint  the  soul,  never  mind  the  legs  and  arms ! 
Rub  all  out,  try  at  it  a second  time ! 

Oh  ! that  white  smallish  female  with  the  breasts, 
She’s  just  my  niece  . . . Herodias,  I would 
say,— 

Who  went  and  danced,  and  got  men’s  heads  cut 
off ! 

Have  it  all  out ! ” Now,  is  this  sense,  I ask  ? 

A fine  way  to  paint  soul,  by  painting  body 
So  ill,  the  eye  can’t  stop  there,  must  go  farther 
And  can’t  fare  worse ! Thus,  yellow  does  for 
white 

When  what  you  put  for  yellow ’s  simply  black, 
And  any  sort  of  meaning  looks  intense 
When  all  beside  itself  means  and  looks  naught. 
Why  can’t  a painter  lift  each  foot  in  turn, 

Left  foot  and  right  foot,  go  a double  step, 

Make  his  flesh  liker  and  his  soul  more  like, 
Both  in  their  order?  Take  the  prettiest  face, 
The  Prior’s  niece  . . . patron  saint  — is  it  so 
pretty 

You  can’t  discover  if  it  means  hope,  fear, 
Sorrow  or  joy  ? won’t  beauty  go  with  these  ? 

ii 


162 


jlaments  tottl) 


Suppose  I ’ve  made  her  eyes  all  right  and  blue, 
Can’t  I take  breath  and  try  to  add  life’s  flash, 
And  then  add  soul  and  heighten  them  threefold? 
Or  say  there  ’s  beauty  with  no  soul  at  all  — 

(I  never  saw  it  — put  the  case  the  same — ) 

If  you  get  simple  beauty  and  naught  else, 

You  get  about  the  best  thing  God  invents : 
That’s  somewhat:  and  you’ll  find  the  soul  you 
have  missed, 

Within  yourself,  when  you  return  him  thanks. 

« Rub  all  out ! ” Well,  well,  there ’s  my  life,  in 
short, 

And  so  the  thing  has  gone  on  ever  since. 

I ’m  grown  a man,  no  doubt,  I ’ve  broken  bounds . 
You  should  not  take  a fellow  eight  years  old 
And  make  him  swear  to  never  kiss  the  girls, 

I ’m  my  own  master,  paint  now  as  I please 
Having  a friend,  you  see,  in  the  Corner-house! 
Lord,  it ’s  fast  holding  by  the  rings  in  front  — 
Those  great  rings  serve  more  purposes  than 
just 

To  plant  a flag  in,  or  tie  up  a horse  ! 

And  yet  the  old  schooling  sticks,  the  old  grave 

eyes 

Are  peeping  o’er  my  shoulder  as  I work, . 

The  heads  shake  still,  — “ It ’s  art’s  decline,  my 

son!  . , ,, 

You  ’re  not  of  the  true  painters,  great  and  old ; 
Brother  Angelico’s  the  man, .you ’ll  find; 
Brother  Lorenzo  stands  his  single  peer: 

Fag  on  at  flesh,  you’ll  never  make  the  third . 

Flower  o'  the  pine , 


foments  tottl)  8rt. 


163 


You  keep  your  mistr  . . . manners,  and  I'll 
stick  to  mine! 

I’m  not  the  third,  then:  bless  us,  they  must 
know ! 

Don’t  you  think  they’re  the  likeliest  to  know, 
They  with  their  Latin?  So,  I swallow  my  rage, 
Clinch  my  teeth,  suck  my  lips  in  tight,  and  paint 
To  please  them  — sometimes  do,  and  sometimes 
don’t; 

For,  doing  most,  there’s  pretty  sure  to  come 
A turn,  some  warm  eve  finds  me  at  my  saints  — 
A laugh,  a cry,  the  business  of  the  world  — 
(Flower  o'  the  peach , 

Death  for  us  all , and  his  own  life  for  each  /) 
And  my  whole  soul  revolves,  the  cup  runs  over, 
The  world  and  life’s  too  big  to  pass  for  a 
dream, 

And  I do  these  wild  things  in  sheer  despite, 
And  play  the  fooleries  you  catch  me  at 
In  pure  rage ! The  old  mill-horse,  out  at  grass 
After  hard  years,  throws  up  his  stiff  heels  so, 
Although  the  miller  does  not  preach  to  him 
The  only  good  of  grass  is  to  make  chaff. 

What  would  men  have?  Do  they  like  grass 
or  no  — 

May  they  or  mayn’t  they?  all  I want’s  the 
thing 

Settled  forever  one  way.  As  it  is, 

You  tell  too  many  lies  and  hurt  yourself : 

You  don’t  like  what  you  only  like  too  much, 
You  do  like  what,  if  given  you  at  your  word, 
You  find  abundantly  detestable. 


164 


fUmtnt*  tottl)  art. 


For  me,  I think  I speak  as  I was  taught. 

I always  see  the  garden,  and  God  there 
A-making  man’s  wife:  and,  my  lesson  learned, 
The  value  and  significance  of  flesh, 

I can’t  unlearn  ten  minutes  afterwards. 

You  understand  me : I ’m  a beast,  I know. 

But  see,  now  — why,  I see  as  certainly 
As  that  the  morning-star ’s  about  to  shine, 

What  will  hap  some  day.  We’ve  a youngster 
here 

Comes  to  our  convent,  studies  what  I do, 
Slouches  and  stares  and  let ’s  no  atom  drop  : 

His  name  is  Guidi — he  ’ll  not  mind  the  monks  - 
They  call  him  Hulking  Tom,  he  lets  them  talk 
He  picks  my  practice  up  — he  ’ll  paint  apace, 

I hope  so  — though  I never  live  so  long, 

I know  what’s  sure  to  follow.  You  be  judge! 
You  speak  no  Latin  more  than  I,  belike; 
However,  you  ’re  my  man,  you’ve  seen  the  world 

— The  beauty  and  the  wonder  and  the  power, 
The  shapes  of  things,  their  colors,  lights,  and 

shades, 

Changes,  surprises,  — and  God  made  it  all . 

— For  what  ? Do  you  feel  thankful,  ay  or  no, 
For  this  fair  town’s  face,  yonder  river’s  line, 
The  mountain  round  it  and  the  sky  above, 

Much  more  the  figures  of  man,  woman,  child, 
These  are  the  frame  to  ? What ’s  it  all  about  ? 
To  be  passed  over,  despised  ? or  dwelt  upon, 
Wondered  at?  oh,  this  last  of  course!  you 

say.  . 

But  why  not  do  as  well  as  say,  — paint  these 


JHaments  tottf)  &rt. 


165 


Just  as  they  are,  careless  what  comes  of  it  ? 

God’s  works  — paint  any  one,  and  count  it 
crime 

To  let  a truth  slip.  Don’t  object,  “ His  works 
Are  here  already ; nature  is  complete : 

Suppose  you  reproduce  her  — (which  you  can  t) 
There ’s  no  advantage ! you  must  beat  her, 
then.” 

For,  don’t  you  mark  ? we  ’re  made  so  that  we 
love 

First  when  we  see  them  painted,  things  we  have 
passed 

Perhaps  a hundred  times  nor  cared  to  see ; 

And  so  they  are  better,  painted  — better  to  us, 
Which  is  the  same  thing.  Art  was  given  for 
that ; 

God  uses  us  to  help  each  other  so, 

Lending  our  minds  out.  Have  you  noticed,  now, 
Your  cullion’s  hanging  face  ? A bit  of  chalk, 
And  trust  me  but  you  should,  though!  How 
much  more 

If  I drew  higher  things  with  the  same  truth ! 
That  were  to  take  the  Prior’s  pulpit-place, 
Interpret  God  to  all  of  you  ! Oh,  oh 
It  makes  me  mad  to  see  what  men  shall  do 
And  we  in  our  graves ! This  world ’s  no  blot 
for  us 

Nor  blank  ; it  means  intensely,  and  means  good  ; 
To  find  its  meaning  is  my  meat  and  drink. 

“ Ay,  but  you  don’t  so  instigate  to  prayer ! ” 
Strikes  in  the  Prior : “ when  your  meaning ’s 
plain 


^omenta  toitl)  art. 


1 66 


It  does  not  say  to  folks  — remember  matins, 

Or,  mind  you  fast  next  Friday!”  Why,  for 
this 

What  need  of  art  at  all?  A skull  and  bones,  ^ 
Two  bits  of  stick  nailed  cross-wise,  or,  what ’s 
best, 

A bell  to  chime  the  hour  with,  does  as  well. 

I painted  a Saint  Lawrence  six  months  since 
At  Prato,  splashed  the  fresco  in  fine  style  : 

“ How  looks  my  painting,  now  the  scaffold ’s 
down  ? ” 

I asked  a brother : “ Hugely,”  he  returns  — 
u Already  not  one  phiz  of  your  three  slaves 
Who  turn  the  Deacon  off  his  toasted  side, 

But ’s  scratched  and  prodded  to  our  heart’s  con- 
tent, 

The  pious  people  have  so  eased  their  own 
With  coming  to  say  prayers  there  in  a rage : 

We  get  on  fast  to  see  the  bricks  beneath. 
Expect  another  job  this  time  next  year, 

For  pity  and  religion  grow  i’  the  crowd 
Your  painting  serves  its  purpose  ! ” Hang  the 
fools ! 

That  is  — you  ’ll  not  mistake  an  idle  word 

Spoke  in  a huff  by  a poor  monk,  Got  wot 
Tasting  the  air  this  spicy  night  which  turns 
The  unaccustomed  head  like  Chianti  wine! 

Oh,  the  church  knows  ! don’t  misreport  me, 
now 

It ’s  natural  a poor  monk  out  of  bounds 
Should  have  his  apt  word  to  excuse  himself:. 


^aments  toit&  art. 


l67 


And  hearken  how  I plot  to  make  amends. 

I have  bethought  me:  I shall  paint  a piece 

There ’s  for  you ! Give  me  six  months, 
then  go,  see 

Something  in  Sant’  Ambrogio’s ! Bless  the 
nuns  ! 

They  want  a cast  o’  my  office.  I shall  paint 
God  in  the  midst,  Madonna  and  her  babe, 
Ringed  by  a bowery,  flowery  angel-brood, 

Lilies  and  vestments  and  white  faces,  sweet 
As  puff  on  puff  of  grated  orris-root 
When  ladies  crowd  to  church  at  midsummer. 
And  then  i’  the  front,  of  course  a saint  or  two  — 
Saint  John,  because  he  saves  the  Florentines, 
Saint  Ambrose,  who  puts  down  in  black  and 
white 

The  convent’s  friends  and  gives  them  a long 

day,  . 

And  Job,  I must  have  him  there  past  mistake, 
The  man  of  Uz  (and  Us  without  the  2, 

Painters  who  need  his  patience).  Well,  all 
these 

Secured  at  their  devotion,  up  shall  come 
Out  of  a corner  when  you  least  expect, 

As  one  by  a dark  stair  into  a great  light, 

Music  and  talking,  who  but  Lippo  ! I ! — 
Mazed,  motionless,  and  moon-struck  I’m  the 
man ! 

Back  I shrink  — what  is  this  I see  and  hear? 

I,  caught  up  with  my  monk’s  things  by  mistake, 
My  old  serge  gown  and  rope  that  goes  all  round, 
I,  in  this  presence,  this  pure  company  l 


foments  tottb  &rt. 


1 68 


Where  ’s  a hole,  where ’s  a corner  for  escape? 
Then  steps  a sweet  angelic  slip  of  a thing 
Forward,  puts  out  a soft  palm  — “ Not  so  fast ! ” 
— Addresses  the  celestial  presence,  “ nay  — 

He  made  you  and  devised  you,  after  all, 

Though  he ’s  none  of  you ! Could  Saint  John 
there,  draw  — 

His  camel-hair  made  up  a painting-brush  ? 

We  come  to  brother  Lippo  for  all  that, 

Iste  perfecit  opus ! ” So,  all  smile  — 

I shuffle  sideways  with  my  blushing  face 
Under  the  cover  of  a hundred  wings 
Thrown  like  a spread  of  kirtles  when  you  ’re  gay 
And  play  hot  cockles,  all  the  doors  being  shut 
Till,  wholly  unexpected,  in  there  pops 
The  hot-head  husband ! Thus  I scuttle  off 
To  some  safe  bench  behind,  not  letting  go 
The  palm  of  her,  the  little  lily  thing 
That  spoke  the  good  word  for  me  in  the  nick, 
Like  the  Prior’s  niece  . . . Saint  Lucy,  I would 
say. 

And  so  all ’s  saved  for  me,  and  for  the  church 
A pretty  picture  gained.  Go,  six  months 
hence ! 

Your  hand,  sir,  and  good-by:  no  lights,  no 
lights ! 

The  street ’s  hushed,  and  I know  my  own  way 
back. 

Don't  fear  me  ! There ’s  the  gray  beginning. 
Zooks ! 


Robert  Browning. 


JJtomente  tottl)  &rt. 


169 


CLIV. 


EXTEMPORANEOUS  LINES  ON  A PORTRAIT 
OF  LADY  MARY  WORTLEY  MONTAGU, 
PAINTED  BY  KNELLER. 


The  playful  smiles  around  the  dimpled  mouth, 
That  happy  air  of  majesty  and  truth, 

So  would  I draw : but  oh  ! ’t  is  vain  to  try; 

My  narrow  genius  does  the  power  deny. 

The  equal  lustre  of  the  heavenly  mind, . 

Where  every  grace  with  every  virtue ’s  joined; 
Learning  not  vain,  and  wisdom  not  severe, 

With  greatness  easy,  and  with  wit  sincere  5 
With  just  description  show  the  soul  divine, 

And  the  whole  princess  in  my  work  should 
shine. 

Alexander  Pope. 


CL  V. 

ART. 

The  thousand  painful  steps  at  last  are  trod, 

At  last  the  temple’s  difficult  door  we  win ; 

But  perfect  on  his  pedestal,  the  god 
Freezes  us  hopeless  when  we  enter  in. 

William  Watson. 


CL  VI. 

In  framing  artists, 

Art  hath  thus  decreed 

To  make  some  good,  but  others  to  exceed. 

Shakespeare. 


170 


foments  toitf)  art. 


CL  VII. 

TURNER’S  OLD  T^M^RAIRE. 

(Under  a Figure  symbolizing  the  Church.) 

Thou  wast  the  fairest  of  all  man-made  things; 
The  breath  of  heaven  bore  up  thy  cloudy  wings, 
And,  patient  in  their  triple  rank, 

The  thunders  crouched  about  thy  flank, 

Their  black  lips  silent  with  the  doom  of  kings. 

The  storm-wind  loved  to  rock  him  in  thy  pines, 
And  swell  thy  vans  with  breath  of  great  designs ; 
Long-wildered  pilgrims  of  the  main 
By  thee  relaid  their  course  again, 

Whose  prow  was  guided  by  celestial  signs. 

How  didst  thou  trample  on  tumultuous  seas, 

Or,  like  some  basking  sea-beast  stretched  at 
ease, 

Let  the  bull-fronted  surges  glide 
Caressingly  along  thy  side, 

Like  glad  hounds  leaping  by  the  huntsman’s 
knees ! 

Heroic  feet  with  fire  of  genius  shod, 

In  battle’s  ecstasy  thy  deck  have  trod, 

While  from  their  touch  a fu Igor  ran 
Through  plank  and  spar ; from  man  to  man, 
Welding  thee  to  a thunderbolt  of  God. 

Now  a black  demon,  belching  fire  and  steam, 
Drags  thee  away,  a pale,  dismantled  dream, 
And  all  thy  desecrated  bulk 
Must  landlocked  lie,  a helpless  hulk, 

To  gather  weeds  in  the  regardless  stream. 


foments  tDttft  U 


171 


Woe ’s  me,  from  Ocean’s  sky-horizoned  air 
To  this  ! Better,  the  flame-cross  still  aflare, 
Shot-shattered  to  have  met  thy  doom 
Where  thy  last  lightnings  cheered  the  gloom, 
Than  here  be  safe  in  dangerless  despair. 

Thy  drooping  symbol  to  the  flagstaff  clings, 
Thy  rudder  soothes  the  tide  to  lazy  rings, 

Thy  thunders  now  but  birthdays,  greet, 

Thy  planks  forget  the  martyr’s  feet, 

Thy  masts  what  challenges  the  sea-wind  brings. 

Thou  a mere  hospital,  where  human  wrecks, 
Like  winter-flies,  crawl  those  renowned  decks, 
Ne’er  trodden  save  by  captive  foes, 

And  wonted  sternly  to  impose 

God’s  will  and  thine  on  bowed  imperial  necks ! 


Shall  nevermore,  engendered  of  thy  fame, 

A new  sea-eagle  heir  thy  conqueror  name, 

And  with  commissioned  talons  wrench 
From  thy  supplanter’s  grimy  clench 
His  sheath  of  steel,  his  wings  of  smoke  and 
flame  ? 

This  shall  the  pleased  eyes  of  our  children  see ; 
For  this  the  stars  of  God  long  even  as  we ; 
Earth  listens  for  his  wings  ; the  Fates 
Expectant  lean  ; Faith  cross-propt  waits, 

And  the  tired  waves  of  Thought’s  insurgent  sea. 

James  Russell  Lowell, 


1/2 


fEUmtnts  tottf) 


CL  VIII. 

OUR  LADY  OF  THE  ROCKS. 

(By  Leonardo  da  Vinci.) 

Mother,  is  this  the  darkness  of  the  end, 

The  Shadow  of  Death  ? and  is  that  outer  sea 
Infinite  imminent  Eternity? 

And  does  the  death-pang  by  man’s  seed  sustain’d 
In  Time’s  each  instant  cause  thy  face  to  bend 
Its  silent  prayer  upon  the  Son,  while  he 
Blesses  the  dead  with  his  hand  silently 
To  his  long  day  which  hours  no  more  offend  ? 

Mother  of  grace,  the  pass  is  difficult, 

Keen  as  these  rocks,  and  the  bewildered  souls 
Throng  it  like  echoes,  blindly  shuddering 
through. 

Thy  name,  O Lord,  each  spirit’s  voice  extols, 
Whose  peace  abides  in  the  dark  avenue 
Amid  the  bitterness  of  things  occult. 

D.  G.  Rossetti. 

CLIX. 

A great  architect  must  be  a great  sculptor 
or  painter.  This  is  a universal  law.  No  per- 
son who  is  not  a great  sculptor  or  painter  can 
be  an  architect.  If  he  is  not  a sculptor  or 
painter,  he  can  only  be  a builder.  The  three 
greatest  architects  hitherto  known  in  the  world 
were  Phidias,  Giotto,  and  Michael  Angelo ; with 
all  of  whom,  architecture  was  only  their  play, 
sculpture  and  painting  their  work. 

John  Ruskin. 


foments  tottf)  9trt. 


173 


CLX. 

SONNET  ON  BRITON  RIVIERE’S  PAINTING : 
DANIEL’S  ANSWER  TO  THE  KING. 

u a.h,  if ’t  were  true,  how  greater  far  than  song 
The  fact  itself ! An  Hebrew  prophet-seer 
Alone,  unharmed,  where  falchioned  Death  flames 
clear 

From  yellow  eye-balls  burning  in  a throng 
Of  lions ; and,  through  instants  roars  prolong, 
Pants  with  a blood- thirst,  trembles  at  a tear 
Just  fallen  from  the  prophet’s  Israel  dear;  . 

Then  crouches,  snarling  like  a vanquished 
wrong.” 

’Tis  true.  What  boots  it,  critic,  thou  dost 
doubt  ? 

Open  a soul’s  den.  Ask  Love’s  angel  bound: 

“ Art  safe  ? ” Lo,  crowned  Evil  from  above 
Listens,  through  compromise,  to  hear  Death’s 
shout, 

While  sharp-clawed  passions  wander  silent 
round, 

Dazed,  cowed,  and  conquered  by  transfigured 
love. 

Frank  W.  Gunsaulus. 


CLXI. 

Beauty  alone  endures  from  age  to  age, 

From  age  to  age  endures,  handmaid  of  God. 

T.  B.  Aldrich. 


174 


foments  tottl) 


CLXII. 

A MAGDALEN  OF  THE  DRESDEN  GALLERY. 


I. 

Gerhard  Dow  — Lys  — Correggio. 

Not  she,  whose  fruitless  tears  avow  a youth 
Less  yielded  to  warm  love  than  basely  sold ; 
Angry  with  shame,  who  clutches  still  her  gold, 
Drooped  in  satiety,  not  bound  with  ruth,  — 

Nor  she,  who  mars  with  penances  uncouth 
Her  fatal  beauty,  that  no  eyes  behold 
Save  a skull’s  hollow  orbs,  yet  overbold 
Deems  heaven’s  grace  a debt  to  grief,  forsooth  — 
Nor  that  dust-kissing  face,  whence  sorrow’s 
tooth 

Has  gnawed  all  passion,  leaving  it  as  cold 
As  her  own  emptied  vase  ; whose  hands  enfold 
The  Book  from  which  remorse  has  taught  her 
truth  — 

Though  still  so  fair  in  ruin,  she  might  win 
The  world  to  doubt  if  sentence  waits  on  sin. 


II. 

Zurbaran  — Guido. 

Alone,  not  lingering  to  adore  or  mourn, 

First  seen,  first  sent,  from  that  transfigured 
grave, 

With  “ go  in  peace  ” — to  seek  no  desert-cave. 
But  loving,  erring  lives  to  lift  and  warm: 

With  prophet  tears  for  sisters  yet  unborn, 


jHoments;  toit!)  &rt* 


175 


She,  first  forgiven,  only  blessed,  will  crave 
Their  heritage  in  all  her  dear  Lord  gave; 

Grace  for  crushed  hearts,  killed  by  the  harsh 
world's  scorn  — 

Or  rapt  in  vision,  lifting  eyes  above 
Softened  through  sorrow  to  ecstatic  love, 

Will  hail  the  promise  of  the  golden  years 
When  balm  shall  be  distilled  from  bitterest  tears, 
God’s  law  rule  man’s,  and  all  who,  following  her, 
Love,  to  be  lost,  not  unredeemed  shall  err. 

A.  R.  Macdonough. 


CL  XIII. 

THE  PORTRAIT. 

O Lord  of  all  compassionate  control, 

O Love ! let  this  my  lady’s  picture  glow 
Under  my  hand  to  praise  her  name,  and  show 

Even  of  her  inner  self  the  perfect  whole  : 

That  he  who  seeks  her  beauty’s  furthest  goal, 
Beyond  the  light  that  the  sweet  glances  throw 
And  refluent  wave  of  the  sweet  smile,  may 
know 

The  very  sky  and  sea-line  of  her  soul. 

Lo  ! it  is  done.  Above  the  enthroning  throat 
The  mouth’s  mould  testifies  of  voice  and  kiss, 
The  shadowed  eyes  remember  and  foresee. 

Her  face  is  made  her  shrine.  Let  all  men  note 
That  in  all  years  (O  Love,  thy  gift  is  this!) 
They  that  would  look  on  her  must  come  to 
me. 


D.  G.  Rossetti. 


176 


Jftoments  tott!)  &rt 


CLX ’IV. 

HIRAM  POWERS’  GREEK  SLAVE. 

They  say  Ideal  beauty  cannot  enter 

The  house  of  anguish.  On  the  threshold  stands 

An  alien  Image  with  enshackled  hands, 

Called  the  Greek  Slave  ! as  if  the  artist  meant 
her 

(That  passionless  perfection  which  he  lent  her, 
Shadowed  not  darkened  where  the  sill  expands) 
To  so  confront  man’s  crimes  in  different  lands 
With  man’s  ideal  sense.  Pierce  to  the  centre, 
Art’s  fiery  finger  ! and  break  up  ere  long 
The  serfdom  of  this  world  ! appeal,  fair  stone, 
From  God’s  pure  heights  of  beauty  against 
man’s  wrong ! 

Catch  up  in  thy  divine  face,  not  alone 
East  griefs  but  west,  and  strike  and  shame  the 
strong, 

By  thunders  of  white  silence,  overthrown. 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 

CLXV. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO’S  SLAVE. 

Of  life,  of  death,  the  mystery  and  woe 

Witness  in  this  mute,  carven  stone  the  whole. 
That  suffering  smile  were  never  fashioned  so 
Before  the  world  had  wakened  to  a soul. 

R.  W.  Gilder. 


foments  tottj)  %Lxt.  177 


CLXVI. 

CHRIST  BLESSING  LITTLE  CHILDREN. 

(Suggested  by  the  Picture  of  Rembrandt  in  the  National 
Gallery.) 

Master,  well  done  ! thy  sombre  colors  stoop. 

As  what  they  paint  did,  to  the  root  of  things  1 

Thy  Christ  hath  eyes,  whose  weary  glances 
droop, 

Marred  with  much  love,  and  all  the  ache  it 
brings  : 

Thy  children  — soft,  albeit,  their  Syrian  grace  — 

Clasp  sunburnt  breasts,  and  drink  of  milk 
that  cost 

Sweat  to  provide  it ; from  each  mother’s  face 

Is  gone  the  bridal  beauty ; lapsed  and  lost 

Bliss  from  these  bondsmen ; yet,  how  the 
Divine 

Breaks  through  the  clay ! how  Truth’s  gold 
gilds  the  story ! 

How  longing  for  heaven’s  light  makes  earth’s 
gloom  shine ! 

How  lovely,  at  its  lowest,  is  love’s  glory  ! 

We  see  Him  as  He  sate  in  Palestine. 

Lord  Christ ! these  are  the  little  ones  that  come  ! 

Thou  spakest,  “ Suffer  them ; ” yea,  Thou 
didst  say, 

“ Forbid  them  not,  for  in  my  kingdom  some 

Are  like  to  such  ! ” O Lord  ! do  Angels  lay 

Small  aching  heads  on  sorrow-laden  bosoms  ? 

Do  Thy  young  angels  toil,  and  starve  and 
weep  ? 


12 


i78 


foments  toitl)  3tri. 


Hardly  for  these  will  ope  life’s  morning  bios- 
SOmS 

Before  their  days  bring  griefs,  their  nightly 
sleep 

Dreams  of  the  Roman  whip.  Ah,  Master  Mud  . 
Be  some  great  secret  of  Thy  kingdom  said 

To  keep  some  grown  man  glad  as  this  male 
child, 

The  woman  pure  as  is  that  tender  maid ! 

They  “ see  Thy  F ather’s  face  ! ” Then,  how 
beguiled  ? 

Little  sweet  sister,  standing  at  His  knee  ! 

Small  peasant  sister ! sucking  at  thy  thumb. 

Touched  to  thy  tiny  heart  with  the  mystery, 

Glad  to  be  brought,  but  far  too  shy  to  come ; 

Ah  ! tremble,  but  steal  closer  ; let  it  cover 
All  of  thy  head,  that  potent,  piteous  hand  ; . 

And,  mothers ! reach  your  round-eyed  babies 
over 

To  take  their  turn,  nought  though  they  under- 
stand. 

For  these  thereby  are  safe,  being  so  kissed 
By  that  Love’s  lips  which  kisses  out  of 
heaven ; 

And  we,  with  little  children,  but  no  Christ, 

Press  near ; perchance  the  blessing  may  be 
given 

From  theirs  to  ours,  though  we  His  face  have 
missed. 


Sir  Edwin  Arnold. 


jfftoments  toitf) 


179 


CL  XVI I. 

THE  PATHOS  OF  ART. 

Oft  seeing  the  old  painters’  art, 

We  find  the  tear  unbidden  start, 

And  feel  our  full  hearts  closer  grow 
To  the  far  days  of  long  ago. 

Not  burning  faith,  or  godlike  pain, 

Can  thus  our  careless  thought  enchain  ; 
The  heavenward  gaze  of  souls  sublime, 
At  once  transcends,  and  conquers  time. 

Nor  pictured  form  of  seer  or  saint, 
Which  hands  inspired  delight  to  paint ; 
Art’s  highest  aims  of  hand  or  tongue, 
Age  not,  but  are  forever  young. 

But  some  imperfect,  trivial  scene, 

Of  homely  life  that  once  has  been, 

Of  youth,  so  soon  to  pass  away, 

Of  happy  childhood’s  briefer  day; 

Or  humble  daily  tasks  portrayed, — 
The  thrifty  mistress  with  her  maid ; 
The  flowers  upon  the  casement  set, 
Which  in  our  Aprils  blossom  yet; 

The  long  processions  never  done  ; 

The  time-worn  palace,  scarce  begun; 
The  gondolier,  who  plies  his  oar 
For  stately  sirs  or  dames  of  yore  ; 


i8o 


foments  totti)  &rt. 


The  girl  with  fair  hair  morning-stirred, 

Who  swings  her  casement  for  her  bird ; 

The  hunt,  the  feast,  the  simple  mirth 
Which  marks  the  marriage  or  the  birth 

The  burly  forms,  from  side  to  side, 

Swift  rolling  on  the  frozen  tide  ; 

The  long-haired  knights  ; the  ladies  prim  ; 
The  chanted  madrigal,  or  hymn  ; 

The  opera,  with  its  stately  throng  ; 

The  twilight  church  aisles  stretching  long ; 
The  spires  upon  the  wooded  wold; 

The  dead  pathetic  life  of  old  ; — 

These  all  the  musing  mind  can  fill  — 

So  dead,  so  past,  so  living  still : 

Oh,  dear  dead  lives  ! oh,  hands  long  gone  ! 
Whose  life,  whose  Art  still  lingers  on. 

Sir  Lewis  Morris. 


CLXVIII. 

In  youth  the  artist  voweth  lover’s  vows 
To  Art,  in  manhood  maketh  her  his  spouse. 
Well  if.  her  charms  yet  hold  for  him  such  joy 
As  when  he  craved  some  boon  and  she  was  coy ! 

William  Watson. 


CL  XIX. 

Thank  God,  I,  too,  am  a painter. 


Correggio. 


^omenta  toitl) 


1 8 1 


CLXX. 

AN  HOUR  IN  A STUDIO  (F.  L.) 

Each  picture  was  a painted  memory 
Of  the  fair  plains  he  loved,  and  of  their  life 
Weird,  mystical,  dark,  inarticulate,  — 

And  cities  hidden  high  against  the  blue, 

Whose  sky-hung  steps  one  Indian  could  guard. 
The  enchanted  Mesa  there  its  fated  wall 
Lifted,  and  all  its  story  lived  again,  — 

How,  in  the  happy  planting  time,  the  strong 
Went  down  to  push  the  seeds  into  the  sand, 
Leaving  the  old  and  sick.  Then  reeled  the 
world 

And  toppled  to  the  plain  the  perilous  path. 
Death  climbed  another  way  to  them  who  stayed. 
He  showed  us  pictured  thirst,  a dreadful  sight ; 
And  many  tales  he  told  that  might  have  come,  — 
Brought  by  some  planet-wanderer,  — fresh  from 
Mars, 

Or  from  the  silver  deserts  of  the  moon. 

But  I remember  better  than  all  else 
One  night  he  told  of  in  that  land  of  fright,  — 
The  love-songs  swarthy  men  sang  to  their  herds 
On  the  high  plains  to  keep  the  beasts  in  heart; 
Piercing  the  silence  one  keen  tenor  voice 
Singing,  44  Ai  nostri  monte  ” clear  and  high 
Instead  of  snakes  and  fences  round  about 
They  circled  them  with  music  in  the  night. 

Richard  Watson  Gilder. 


182 


JHoments  tott?)  &rt 


CLXXI. 

ART. 

She  stood,  a vision  vestureless  and  fair, 

Glowing  the  canvas  with  her  orient  grace : 

A goddess  grave  she  stood,  with  such  a face 
As  in  Elysium  the  immortals  wear. 

But  some,  unworthy,  as  they  pondered  there, 
Cold  to  the  marvel  of  her  look  divine,* 

Saw  but  a form  undraped,  in  Beauty’s  shrine. 

Then  she,  it  seemed,  rebuked  them  : “ Old  and 
young 

Have  worshiped  at  the  temple  where  I breathe, 
And  deathless  laurels,  for  my  sake,  enwreathe 
The  brows  of  him  from  whose  pure  thought  I 
sprung : 

Lips  consecrate  as  yours  his  praise  have  sung, 
Who  neither  sued  for  praise  nor  courted  ease, 
But  reverently  wrought,  as  from  his  knees. 

“ No  raiment  can  the  base  or  mean  reclaim, 
And  that  which  sacred  is  must  sacred  be, 
Clothed  but  in  rags  or  robed  in  modesty. 

In  the  endeavor  still  is  felt  the  aim : 

The  workman  may  by  skill  exalt  his  name, 

But,  toiling  fault  and  failure  to  redeem, 

Cannot  create  what ’s  loftier  than  his  dream. 

“ For  chaste  must  be  the  soul  that  chastely  sees, 
The  thought  enlightened,  and  the  insight  sure 
That  separates  the  pure  from  the  impure ; 


jHoments  toitl)  9Crt- 


183 


And  who  Earth’s  humblest  faith  from  error  frees, 
Awakening  ideal  sympathies, 

Uplifts  the  savage  from  his  kindred  sod  ; 

Who  shows  him  beauty  speaks  to  him  of  God.” 
Florence  Earle  Coates. 


CL  XXI I. 

ARS  SERVATRIX. 

(On  Reading  Wm.  Morris’  “ Hopes  and  Fears  for  Art.”) 

We  grow  less  worthy  as  the  years  roll  by; 

Our  common  life  is  an  incarnate  wrong. 

We  fight  where  victory  is  to  the  strong, 

111  is  our  good,  and  low  alone  is  high. 

Gold  is  our  god,  and  whoso  hath  can  buy 
The  land,  the  lives,  the  honor  of  the  throng ; 
No  ancient  pride  doth  to  our  age  belong ; 
Aimless  we  live,  and  therefore  hopeless  die. 


Come,  rich-robed  Mistress,  hid  so  long  a while ! 
We  look  for  thee  stern-vis  aged,  as  is  meet, 
For  well  we  know  thy  service  will  be  pain 
Till  we  have  much  renounced.  Then  thou  wilt 


smile, 

And  in  thy  smile  a stately  life  and  sweet 
Will  rise,  and  Labor  bringing  Beauty  in 
its  train. 

Henry  Norman. 


CL  XXI I I 

I have  no  secret  but  hard  work. 

J.  W.  M.  Turner. 


jHomrats  toitlj  &tt. 


184 


CL  XXIV. 

MILLAIS’  “ HUGUENOTS.” 

(To  H.,  playing  one  of  Mendelssohn’s  “ Songs  without 
Words.”) 

Your  fav’rite  picture  rises  up  before  me, 
Whene’er  you  play  that  tune  ; 

I see  two  figures  standing  in  a garden, 

In  the  still  August  noon. 

One  is  a girl’s,  with  pleading  face  turned  up- 
wards, 

Wild  with  great  alarm  ; 

Trembling  with  haste,  she  binds  her  broidered 
kerchief 

About  the  other’s  arm, 

Whose  gaze  is  bent  on  her  in  tender  pity, 

Whose  eyes  look  into  hers 
With  a deep  meaning,  though  she  cannot  read  it, 
Hers  are  so  dim  with  tears. 

What  are  they  saying  in  the  sunny  garden, 

With  summer  flowers  ablow  ? 

What  gives  the  woman’s  voice  its  passionate 
pleading  ? 

What  makes  the  man’s  so  low  ? 

“ See,  love  ! ” she  murmurs ; “ you  shall  wear 
my  kerchief, 

It  is  the  badge,  I know ; 

And  it  will  bear  you  safely  through  the  conflict, 
If  — if,  indeed,  you  go  ! 


Jlomaxts  tottl)  Strt. 


18S 


“ You  will  not  wear  it  ? Will  not  wear  my 
kerchief  ? 

Nay ! Do  not  tell  me  why, 

I will  not  listen  ! If  you  go  without  it, 

You  will  go  hence  to  die. 

« Hush ! Do  not  answer  ! It  is  death,  I tell 
you ! 

Indeed,  I speak  the  truth. 

You  standing  there,  so  warm  with  life  and  vigor, 

So  bright  with  health  and  youth; 

u You  would  go  hence  out  of  the  glowing  sun- 
shine, 

Out  of  the  garden’s  bloom, 

Out  of  the  living,  thinking,  feeling  present 

Into  the  unknown  gloom  ! ” 

Then  he  makes  answer,  “ Hush  ! O hush,  my 
darling ! 

Life  is  so  sweet  to  me, 

So  full  of  hope,  you  need  not  bid  me  guard  it, 

If  such  a-  thing  might  be  ! 

“ If  such  a thing  might  be  ! — but  not  through 
falsehood, 

I could  not  come  to  you ; 

I dare  not  stand  here  in  your  pure,  sweet 
presence, 

Knowing  myself  untrue.” 


foments  tottl)  3trt* 


1 86 


“ Child  ! child  ! I little  dreamt  in  that  bright 
summer, 

When  first  your  love  I sought, 

Of  all  the  future  store  of  love  and  anguish 
Which  I,  unknowing,  wrought. 

“ But  you  ’ll  forgive  me  ? Yes,  you  will  forgive 
me, 

I know,  when  I am  dead ! 

I would  have  loved  you,  — but  words  have  scant 
meaning; 

God  loved  you  more  instead  ! ” 

Then  there  in  silence  in  the  sunny  garden, 

Until,  with  faltering  tone, 

She  sobs,  the  while  still  clinging  closer  to  him, 

“ F orgive  me  — go  — my  own  ! ” 

So  human  love,  and  death  by  faith  unshaken, 
Mingle  their  glorious  psalm, 

Albeit  low,  until  the  passionate  pleading 
Is  hushed  in  deepest  calm. 

Anonymous. 


CLXXV. 

The  true  work  of  art  is  but  a shadow  of  the 
Divine  perfection. 


Michael  Angelo. 


CLXXVI. 

Nature  is  God's,  Art  is  man’s  instrument. 

Sir  T.  Overbury. 


foments  iaitf)  3trt. 


187 


CL  XXV I I. 

OLD  AND  NEW  ART. 

(Saint  Luke  the  Painter.) 

Give  honor  unto  Luke  Evangelist; 

For  he  it  was  (the  ancient  legends  say) 

Who  first  taught  Art  to  fold  her  hands  and 
pray. 

Scarcely  at  once  she  dared  to  rend  the  mist 
Of  devious  symbols  : but  soon  having  wist 
How  sky-breadth  and  field-silence  and  this  day 
Are  symbols  also  in  some  deeper  way ; 

She  looked  through  these  to  God  and  was  God’s 
priest. 

And  if,  past  noon,  her  toil  began  to  irk, 

And  she  sought  talismans,  and  turned  in  vain 
To  soulless  self-reflections  of  man’s  skill,  — 
Yet  now,  in  this  the  twilight,  she  might  still 
Kneel  in  the  latter  grass  to  pray  again, 

Ere  the  night  cometh  and  she  may  not  work. 

D.  G.  Rossetti. 

CLXXVIII . 

Let  any  sculptor  hew  us  out  the  most  ravish- 
ing combination  of  tender  curves  and  spheric 
softness  that  ever  stood  for  woman ; yet  if  the 
lip  have  a certain  fulness  that  hints  of  the  flesh, 
if  the  brow  be  insincere,  if  in  the  minutest  par- 
ticular the  physical  beauty  suggest  a moral  ugli- 
ness, that  sculptor — unless  he  be  portraying 
a moral  ugliness  for  a moral  purpose  — may 


1 88 


foments  tot tt)  %LxU 


as  well  give  over  his  marble  for  paving  stones. 
Time,  whose  judgments  are  inexorably  moral, 
will  not  accept  his  work.  For,  indeed  we  may 
say  that  he  who  has  not  yet  perceived  how 
artistic  beauty  and  moral  beauty  are  convergent 
lines,  which  run  back  into  a common  ideal  origin, 
and  who  therefore  is  not  afire  with  moral  beauty 
just  as  with  artistic  beauty,  — that  he,  in  short, 
who  has  not  come  to  that  stage  of  quiet  and 
eternal  frenzy  in  which  the  beauty  of  holiness 
and  the  holiness  of  beauty  mean  one  thing, 
burn  as  one  fire,  shine  as  one  light  within  him  ; 
he  is  not  yet  the  great  artist. 

Sidney  Lanier. 

( From  u Poems  of  Lanier Copyright , 1884,  1891,  by 
Mary  D . Lanier , and  published  by  Charles  Scribner’s 
Sons.) 

CLXXIX. 

EPITAPH  ON  SIR  GODFREY  KNELLER. 

(In  Westminster  Abbey,  1723.) 

Kneller,  by  Heaven,  and  not  a master,  taught, 
Whose  art  was  nature,  and  whose  pictures 
thought ; 

•Now  for  two  ages  having  snatched  from  fate 
Whate’er  was  beauteous,  or  whate’er  was  great, 
Lies  crowned  with  princes’  honors,  poets’  lays, 
Due  to  his  merit  and  brave  thirst  of  praise. . 

Living,  great  Nature  fear’d  he  might  outvie 
Her  works ; and,  dying,  fears  herself  may  die. 

Alexander  Pope. 


foments  tout?)  3Lrt* 


189 


CL  XXX. 

PICTURES. 

A lurid  sunset,  red  as  blood, 

Firing  a sombre,  haunted  wood  ; 

And  from  the  shadows,  dark  and  fell, 

One  hurrying  with  the  face  of  Hell. 

Two  at  a banquet  board  alone, 

In  dalliance,  the  feast  being  done. 

And  one  behind  the  arras  stands, 

Grasping  an  axe  with  quivering  hands. 

A high  cliff-meadow  lush  with  Spring; 

Gay  butterflies  upon  the  wing ; 

Beneath,  beyond,  unbounded,  free, 

The  foam-flecked,  blue,  pervading  sea. 

A clustering  hill-town,  climbing  white 
From  the  gray  olives  up  the  height, 

And  on  the  inland  summits  high 
Thin  waters  split  as  from  the  sky. 

A rain-swept  moor  at  shut  of  day, 

And  by  the  dead  unhappy  way 
A lonely  child  untended  lies: 

Against  the  West  a wretch  who  flies. 

Cold  dawn,  which  flouts  the  abandoned  hall 
And  one  worn  face,  which  loathes  it  all ; 

In  his  ringed  hand  a vial,  while 
The  gray  lips  wear  a ghastly  smile. 


190 


foments  tottf)  art* 


Corinthian  pillars  fine,  which  stand 
In  moonlight  on  a desert  sand ; 

Others  overthrown,  in  whose  dark  shade 
Some  fire-eyed  brute  its  lair  has  made. 

Mountainous  clouds  embattled  high 
Around  a dark  blue  lake  of  sky ; 

And  from  its  clear  depths,  shining  far, 

The  calm  eye  of  the  evening  star. 

A moonlight  checkered  avenue ; 

Above,  a starlit  glimpse  of  blue : 

Amid  the  shadows  spread  between, 

The  gray  ghost  of  a woman  seen. 

Sir  Lewis  Morris. 

CLXXXI. 

WOMAN  AND  ARTIST. 

I thought  to  win  me  a name 

Should  ring  in  the  ear  of  the  world  ! — 

How  can  I work  with  small  pink  fists 
About  my  fingers  curled  ? 

Then  adieu  to  name  and  fame  ! 

They  scarce  are  worth  at  the  best 
One  touch  of  this  wet  little,  warm  little  mouth 
With  its  lips  against  my  breast. 

Alice  Williams  Brotherton. 

CLXXXII. 

Painting  is  thought  conveyed  to  canvas. 

Apelles. 


foments  tottf)  $rt. 


191 


CLXXXIII. 

THE  LION  OF  LUCERNE. 

When  those  brave  Swiss  in  fine  obedience  fell, 
Heroically  heedful  of  their  trust, 

Art  pondered  by  what  new  great  means  to  tell 
Her  reverence  for  their  consecrated  dust, 
Until  at  last,  bewildered  and  dismayed, 

To  mightier  Nature  she  appealed  for  aid ! 

Then  these  two  blended  powers,  together  grown 
One  glorious  mourner,  eloquent  though  stern, 
Created  from  the  mountain’s  living  stone, 

This  grand  memorial,  Lion  of  Lucerne, 
Where  Art  and  Nature,  towering  side  by  side, 
For  once  are  monumentally  allied ! 

Edgar  Fawcett. 


CL  XXXIV. 

Fine  Art  is  that  in  which  the  hand,  the  head, 
and  the  heart  of  man  go  together.  Recollect 
this  triple  group ; it  will  help  you  to  solve  many 
difficult  problems. 

John  Ruskin. 


CLXXXV. 

There  is  no  great  genius  free  from  some 
tincture  of  madness. 

Seneca. 


foments  tottf)  Strt 


192 


CL  XXX  VI. 

A PORTRAIT  BY  BURNE-JONES. 

The  shadows  fold  her  ’round 
And  sink  profound 

Into  intense  blackness  of  background, 
Against  which,  lily  white, 

Pure  as  a sun’s  ray,  she  springs  to  light. 


And  she  sits  there,  still,  so  still 

That  I can  hear  the  far-off  call  of  thrushes 

On  summer  mornings  from  the  hawthorn  bushes 

Or  orchards  full  of  mellow  sound. 

Thus  I fill 

Another  canvas  with  tall  trees  abloom, 

And  the  chaste  blue  of  English  skies 
Over  an  English  home. 


As  clear  streams, 

Untroubled  to  their  sweet  depths,  are  her  eyes. 
What  warm  surprise 
Will  make  her  red  who  pale 
Now  reads  life  to  a limit,  and  there  stops  ? 

One  shall  part  the  veil ; 

And  open  vistas  of  fair  years  to  be, 

And  little  forms  that  cling  about  the  knee 
Shall  steal,  dear  guests,  unlooked  for,  silently 
Into  the  virgin  spirit  of  her  dreams. 

Marie  van  Vorst. 


Jftnments  tottl)  t 


193 


CL  XXX  VII. 

“ANGELO,  THOU  ART  THE  MASTER.” 

I. 

Angelo,  thou  art  the  master ; for  thou  in  thy  art 

Compassed  the  body,  the  soul ; the  form  and  the 
heart. 

Knew  where  the  roots  of  the  spirit  are  buried 
and  twined, 

The  springs  and  the  rocks  that  shall  suckle,  — 
and  torture  and  bind. 

Large  was  thy  soul  like  the  soul  of  a god  that 
creates  — 

Converse  it  held  with  the  stars  and  the  imminent 
Fates. 

Knewest  thou — Art  is  but  Beauty  perceived 
and  expressed, 

And  the  pang  of  that  Beauty  had  entered  and 
melted  thy  breast. 

Here  by  thy  Slave,  again,  after  long  years  do  I 
bow,  — 

Angelo,  thou  art  the  master,  yea,  thou,  and  but 
thou. 

Here  is  the  crown  of  all  beauty  that  lives  in  the 
world ; 

Spirit  and  flesh  breathing  forth  from  these  lips 
that  are  curled 

With  sweetness  and  sorrow  as  never,  oh,  never 
before, 

And  from  eyes  that  are  heavy  with  light,  and 
shall  weep  nevermore ; 

13 


194 


Jilomcuts  tott!)  &rt. 


And  lo,  at  the  base  of  the  statue,  that  monster 
of  shape  — 

Thorn  of  the  blossom  of  life,  mocking  face  of 
the  ape. 

So  cometh  morn  from  the  shadow  and  murk  of 
the  night ; 

From  pain  springeth  joy,  and  from  flame  the 
keen  beauty  of  light. 


ii. 

Beauty,  — oh,  well  for  the  hearts  that  bow  down 
and  adore  her : 

Heart  of  mine,  hold  thou  in  all  the  world  nothing 
before  her. 

All  the  fair  universe  now  to  her  feet  that  is 
clinging 

Out  of  the  womb  of  her  leaped  with  the  dawn, 
and  the  singing 

Of  stars.  O thou  Beautiful ! — thee  do  I wor- 
ship and  praise 

In  the  dark  where  thy  lamps  are  ; again  in  thy 
glory  of  days, 

Whose  end  and  beginning  thou  blessest  with 
piercing  delight 

Of  splendors  outspread  on  the  edge  of  the  robe 
of  the  night. 

Ah,  that  sweetness  is  sent  not  to  him  whose  dull 
spirit  would  rest 

In  the  bliss  of  it;  no,  not  the  goal,  but  the 
passion  and  quest ; 


foments  toitl)  3trt. 


195 


Not  the  vale,  but  the  desert.  Oh,  never  soft 
airs  shall  awaken 

Thy  soul  to  the  soul  of  all  Beauty,  all  heaven, 
and  all  wonder ; 

The  summons  that  comes  to  thee,  mortal,  thy 
spirit  to  waken, 

Shall  be  the  loud  clarion’s  call  and  the  voices  of 
thunder. 

Richard  Watson  Gilder. 

CL  XXX  VIII. 

MADONNA. 

How  well  we  know  them  — I and  you  — 
This  pair  so  fond,  so  blest ; 

The  Mother,  in  her  gown  of  blue, 

The  child  upon  her  breast ! 

Close  to  her  heart  she  holds  Him  there 
(Our  mothers  held  us  so), 

This  woman  in  her  carved  chair, 

And  will  not  let  Him  go. 

We  stagger  on  through  the  year’s  din, 

From  green  leaf  unto  sear ; 

But  when  the  Christmas  bells  begin 
To  clang  their  ancient  cheer, 

No  more  we  think  of  cares  and  harms, 

Our  Christ  a man  of  woe ; 

We  put  Him  in  His  mother’s  arms. 

And  will  not  let  Him  go  ! 

Lizette  Woodworth  Reese. 


196 


foments  tottl)  Sr U 


CL  XXXIX, 

ON  A SURF-ROLLED  TORSO  OF  VENUS. 
(Found  at  Tripoli  Vecchio,  and  now  in  the  Louvre.) 

One  day  in  the  world’s  youth,  long,  long  ago, 
Before  the  golden  hair  of  Time  grew  gray, 
The  bright  warm  sea,  scarce  stirred  by  the 
dolphin’s  play, 

Was  swept  by  sudden  music  soft  and  low; 

And  rippling,  as  ’neath  kisses,  parted  slow, 

And  gave  a snowy,  dripping  goddess  birth, 
Fairer  than  fairest  daughters  of  the  earth  ; 
Who  brought  fresh  life  to  all  men  here  below. 

And,  lo,  that  self-same  sea  has  now  upthrown 
A mutilated  Venus,  rolled  and  rolled 
For  ages  by  the  surf,  and  that  has  grown 

More  soft,  more  chaste,  more  lovely  than  of 
old, 

With  every  line  toned  down,  so  that  the  stone 
Seems  seen  as  through  a veil  which  ages  hold. 

E.  Lee  Hamilton. 


CXC. 

PORTIA’S  PICTURE. 

Fair  Portia’s  counterfeit  ? What  demigod 
Hath  come  so  near  creation  ? Move  these  eyes  ? 
Or  whether,  riding  on  the  balls  of  mine, 

Seem  they  in  motion  ? Here  are  severed  lips, 
Parted  with  sugar  breath  ; so  sweet  a bar 


foments  tott!)  9Crt. 


197 


Should  sunder  such  sweet  friends : Here  in  her 
hairs 

The  painter  plays  the  spider  ; and  hath  woven 
A golden  mesh  to  entrap  the  hearts  of  men, 
Faster  than  gnats  in  cobwebs  : But  her  eyes,  — 
How  could  he  see  to  do  them?  having  made 
one, 

Methinks  it  should  have  power  to  steal  both 
his, 

And  leave  itself  unfurnished. 

Shakespeare. 

CXCI. 

THE  SUPPER  AT  EMMAUS. 

(A  Picture  by  Rembrandt.) 

Wise  Rembrandt ! thou  couldst  paint,  and  thou 
alone, 

Eyes  that  had  seen  what  never  human  eyes 
Before  had  looked  on  ; him  that  late  had  passed 
Onward  and  back  through  gates  of  Death  and 
Life. 

O human  face  where  the  celestial  gleam 
Lingers  ! Oh,  still  to  thee  the  eyes  of  men  . 
Turn  with  deep,  questioning  worship;  seeing 
there, 

As  in  a mirror,  the  Eternal  Light 
Caught  from  the  shining  of  the  central  Soul 
Whence  came  all  worlds  and  whither  shall 
return. 

Richard  Watson  Gilder. 


198 


foments  tott&  Strt, 


CXCII. 

ART  AND  LOVE. 

He  faced  his  canvas  (as  a seer  whose  ken 
Pierces  the  crust  of  this  existence  through) 
And  smiled  beyond  on  that  his  genius  knew 
Ere  mated  with  his  being.  Conscious  then 
Of  his  high  theme  alone,  he  smiled  again 
Straight  back  upon  himself  in  many  a hue, 
And  tint,  and  light,  and  shade,  which  slowly 
grew 

Enfeatured  of  a fair  girl’s  face,  as  when 

First  time  she  smiles  for  love’s  sake  with  no 
fear. 

So  wrought  he,  witless  that  behind  him  leant 
A woman,  with  old  features,  dim  and  sere, 
And  glamoured  eyes  that  felt  the  brimming 
tear, 

And  with  a voice,  like  some  sad  instrument, 
That  sighing  said, 44  I ’m  dead  there ; love  me 
here ! ” 

J.  W.  Riley. 

( From  “Afterwhiles  ” The  Bowen-Merrill  Co.) 
CXCIII. 

Genius  unexerted  is  no  more  genius  than  a 
bushel  of  acorns  is  a forest  of  oaks. 

Henry  Ward  Beecher. 

CXCIV. 

A bad  painter  caricatures  himself. 

Wouvermans. 


foments  tasitl)  Strt, 


199 


cxcv. 

Have  faith  in  nothing  but  in  industry. 

Be  at  it  late  and  early  ; persevere, 

And  work  right  on  through  censure  and  applause, 
Or  else  abandon  Art. 

Henry  W.  Longfellow. 


CXCV  I. 

“FINIS  CORONAT  OPUS.” 

“ The  end  shall  crown  the  work  ” — 
Ah,  who  shall  tell  the  end  ! 

It  is  a woesome  way, 

And  clouds  portend. 

The  work  is  all  we  know  — 

Enough  for  our  faint  sight. 

The  end  God  knows.  Press  on 
The  crown  — is  light. 


R.  R.  Bowker. 


. 

i 


Musical  moments,  short  seiec- 

tions  in  Prose  and  Verse  for  Music-lovers.  i6mo, 
j 73  pages,  gilt:  top.  Price,  #1.00. 

In  half  morocco  . • • $2*50, 


The  selections  in  prose  and  verse  are  chosen  from  a wide  range 
of  authors,  — from  Euripides  to  Mr.  Clinton  Scollard ; — and  yet 
there  is  not  in  the  book  a single  passage  that  fails  to  convey  some 
noble  thought  or  lovely  emotion.  — The  Beacon , Boston . 

The  selections  are  mainly  chosen  from  the  best  writers,  and 
but  few  of  them  are  trivial  or  unmeaning.  . . . “Musical  Mo- 
ments” is  a dainty  gift-book  to  present  to  any  music-lover  or 
music-student.  — The  Home  Journal , New  York. 

All  of  the  selections  have  more  or  less  direct  reference  to 
music  on  its  artistic  and  aesthetic  sides,  and  they  vary  in  length 
from  a single  line  to  poems  of  several  pages.  No  lover  of  music 
can  take  up  the  book  without  becoming  instantly  interested,  and 
being  beguiled  into  a pleasant  ramble  through  its  diversified 
pages.  — The  Chicago  Times. 

Poems  occupy  the  greater  space,  but  prose  appears  often  and 
regularly.  All  the  selections  are  well  made,  to  utter  the  most 
appreciative  criticism,  and  represent  those  writers  everywhere 
who  have  felt  deepest.  — The  Boston  Globe . 

This  is  one  of  those  really  valuable  little  collections  of  poetic 
gems  that  had  one  common  object  for  inspiration.  The  selec- 
tions are  from  a large  list  of  authors,  and  all  testify  to  the  divine 
influence  of  music.  — The  Christian  Register , Boston. 

Short  selections  in  prose  and  verse  are  here  compiled  from 
authors  of  all  ages  and  climes  who  have  written  on  the  melody 
of  sweet  sounds,  either  incidentally,  or  as  the  principal  theme. 
The  extracts  are  well  chosen,  and,  like  music  itself,  always  refin- 
ing and  elevating.  — The  Kansas  City  Journal. 


Sold  by  all  booksellers , or  mailed  on  receipt  of  price,  by 

A.  C.  McCLURG  & CO.,  Publishers. 


The  Lovers’  Shakspere 


^mpiled  » Chloe  Blakeman  Jones 

i6mo,  gilt  top,  deckle  edges,  with  appropriate  chapter 
head  and  tail  pieces,  and  beautiful  cover  stamp  in  gold. 

In  box,  $1.25  ; half  calf  or  half  morocco,  $3.00 

A very  pretty  little  book  of  Shaksperian  extracts  on 
sweethearts  and  lovers,  their  symptoms,  fates,  and  all  that 
concerns  them.  To  facilitate  reference,  the  matter  is 
arranged  m sections,  each  bearing  a distinctive  title, — “ The 
course  of  true  love,”  “ I will  live  a bachelor,”  etc.  All 
who  are  bachelors,  maids,  wives,  or  widows,  will  find  here 
much  to  interest  them ; and  there  could  scarcely  be  a more 
universally  appropriate  gift-book. 

“ Lovers  are  given  to  poetry,”  and  here  they  will  find  in 
the  daintiest  of  volumes  what  the  world’s  poet  says  of  their 
ailment,  and  gather  from  it  what  consolation  they  may. 
Aside  from  the  inherent  value,  one  of  the  merits  of  this 
book  is  that  it  will  be  a most  appropriate  present,  whether 
given  by  Benedick  to  Beatrice,  or  by  Chloe  to  Strephon,  or 
whether  it  be  the  joint  property  of  both.  It  is  one  of  the 
prettiest  and  choicest  of  the  many  Shakspere  compilations. 
— Saturday  Evening ■ Gazette , Boston . 

The  selections  have  been  made  with  care  and  evident 
completeness,  by  Chloe  Blakeman  Jones,  who  has  shown  a 
good  deal  of  native  wit  in  classifying  the  excerpts.  The 
is  typographically  very  pretty.—  The  Philadelphia 

“ The  Lover’s  Shakspere,”  compiled  by  Mrs.  Chloe 
Blakeman  Jones,  is  what  the  title  indicates,  a collection  of 
quotations  pertaining  to  the  various  phases  of  love.  They 
are  carefully  selected,  adroitly  grouped,  and  daintily  deco- 
rated.— The  Dial . 

Sold  by  all  booksellers , or  mailed  on  receipt  of  price,  by 

A.  C.  McCLURG  & CO.,  Publishers 
CHICAGO 


'l 

V 


N 

I 


1 


